Balcony Beginnings
by flyingfortress
Summary: With a potion gone horribly awry, America and England find themselves far back in time - as the handsome Romeo Montague and the beautiful Juliet Capulet! Can they make it home before the inevitable and tragic end?
1. Chapter 1

The plumes of brightly colored smoke seeping from the windows meant that England was doing something that America had to stick his nose into.

He had originally been in London for a meeting with Churchill (Roosevelt had been present as well), but with the meeting over he thought that he might as well visit England for a bit. Who knows, maybe that stick up his ass came out in the last two hours since he last saw the Brit. America was, honestly, about to break into the house when the shout from the room got his attention, and he hopped the fence to the backyard, where in the basement window he saw Arthur waving his arms around, trying to clear the smoke that Alfred was now choking on.

Had his cooking really gotten that bad over the centuries?

Curiosity was what killed the cat, America knew as he trotted back to the front where he would enter, but he just had to see what was up. It was going to be good, whatever it was.

"Damn! What did I do wrong this time!"

Vials were picked up and set down, some thrown in frustration as Arthur tried to sort his mistake. He was certain this time-reversing spell would work, and he was positive that he had gotten all of the ingredients correct, and yet it hasn't even been brought to a boil, nor had it turned the crimson it was supposed to. The Axis powers - at least Italy and Germany - liked to drink alcohol, and he figured that the crimson liquid could be taken as wine (although, Italy would be the easiest to fool) and perhaps some sort of beer. If Germany didn't believe it, then Arthur figured he could always dye it. As for Japan, China was coming up with something for him, since he knew Kiku's ways better than England.

It was something like a last-ditch effort, although he knew this wouldn't end the war. If he could just send them back in time - two, maybe three hundred years - then the Allies could do something. America was supposed to be coming up with a plan, but the last time he had checked, the moron was enamored with some new video game or other. He could truly be a fool at times.

Arthur grunted and sat on the concrete ground, a vial in his hand. "This is ridiculous. The faeries must have mixed up my potions." His thick brow furrowed in frustration and he chucked the vial of green liquid towards the wall. Instead of the satisfying shatter he had expected, he saw a pink light and looked up to a rather insulted-looking fairy holding the vial in her arms, while having some trouble staying afloat. "A - ah, where did you come from?" he asked in a slightly apologetic tone, but she would hear nothing of it.

"Artie! How could you think something like that?" The other faeries - green, blue, yellow, and purple - came from thin air and floated to him, coaxing the frustrated Nation to his feet. "We only wanna help you, but we'd never touch your potions! We know better than that." She nodded a few times to verify her claim.

"... Except that one time we tried to make an eyebrow-wax solution for your birthday," the purple one pointed out, much to Arthur's shock and mild agitation. "You were complaining a lot about them, and we wanted to help you!"

"Oh, that time doesn't count," the pink one waved a hand.

"'That time' certainly does! I felt nauseated for an entire week after that!" He frowned and rubbed his stomach, the memories of running to the bathroom during one meeting haunting him. "But that's beside the point. You swear you haven't touched them as of late?" He walked forward and held out his hand, the pink fairy floating into his palm as if on command. "You'd better not be lying to me," England murmured in a dangerous tone as he drew her close to his face.

But the fairy only giggled and tapped his nose, pink sparkles shooting into the air as she did. "Teehee!~ You look so cute when you're angry~ No wonder America always tries to upset you! But nope, we haven't touch them in-"

"What?" England defensively rose his voice, cutting her off as he glared at her. "That git annoys me to get some sick satisfaction, not because I look 'cute'! Wh - which I certainly don't." The pink fairy floated off his hand and he used it to scratch his cheek, a small tint of color coming to his cheeks. "Don't be ridiculous," he mumbled under his breath.

All was quiet for a few seconds as the faeries all rang out in a simultaneous 'shh' to one another. Arthur couldn't tell what they were up to, but when a chorus of giggles came from the gossiping faeries, his brow rose. "What exactly was that laugh for?" he asked.

The floating green light pointed up with a happy smile. "We thought we heard something earlier and we did~ We were just saying it's kind of funny, because he's right outside!~ "

England's face suddenly became a disapproving scowl. "What?" he growled, looking up at the ceiling they gestured so eagerly to. And, as if on cue, a loud thump of what was the door hitting the floor could be heard. Dust from the ceiling gently floated down from the felled wooden board, and England could hear the nervous laughter of the Yank upstairs as well as his clobbering footsteps towards the basement door. England gasped in a panic and shoved the faeries into a corner, ignoring their yelps of surprise, and began to try and put the cauldron, potions, and book of spells away - all at once. "I - I can't let him see all this!" England protested, trying to push the heavy cauldron away.

Naturally, none of this worked in time, because America had already kicked the door open with a wild grin. His eyes beheld the cloaked Nation scrambling away, and America was really beginning to wonder what was up now. "England!" America shouted with a grin, waving as he came down. "The door wasn't open so I kicked it down, but I'll fix it later!" Ignoring the grunt of dissatisfaction from England, Alfred whistled as he looked around the area. "Wow, Iggy, you sure got a lot of booze down here. I saw you doin' somethin' with smoke down here, but I never knew you could smoke alcohol! That's pretty awesome."

Arthur snorted in his pace around the stone-walled basement, shoving by America with vials in his arms. "It isn't booze, you git - and don't call me Iggy!" Putting each potion away on the shelf, he sighed and tried to remember their order. "And you can't smoke alcohol, so don't get any ideas." As expected, Alfred gave a whine in reply. England continued. "They're potions. I've been trying to create a spell that may help us in the war, remember? Although, thusfar it isn't coming out perfectly. Not a problem, however; a few tweaks and it should be fine." He straightened up and put his hands on his hips. "Now," he spoke as he began to turn, "I would appreciate if you not only fixed my door but left-" But once he had turned around, he very much wished he had kept an eye on the boy.

Standing in front of the cauldron was Alfred with three different potions hovering above the failed concoction in the cauldron. Arthur had thought that he was missing a few vials, and that damned Yank was playing with them as if they had his name on it - as if he were a practiced magician! England's green orbs widened and he quickly stumbled over to the American, grabbing his wrists and bumping into him as he did so. "Stopstopstop!"

"Whoa!" America hollered, regaining his balance and trying to ward England off of him by bumping his hip. "I just wanna see what'll happen! You said it hasn't been working, so maybe it needs a Hero's touch!" He gave a grin and a laugh. "Or maybe you just suck!"

"I do NOT 'suck'!" England growled defensively, not thinking the joke funny at all. "Now let ... go ... of those vials!" He spoke through gritted teeth, both of them growling and grunting and trying to fight one another off while talking and suddenly -

_Poof_.

Crimson smoke and a cloud of sparks suddenly came from the cauldron. Arthur's horrified visage was the polar opposite of Alfred's excited grin. The shorter Nation grabbed the taller's hands, and in them were vials of air and nothing more. America shrugged, and England realized that the two of them had both dumped the potions in - although that wouldn't stop him from pinning all the blame on the American. He sent a sharp glare to America's baby blues and tore the tubes out of his hand, throwing them on the ground and enjoying their smashing sound. "You fool! Do you realize what you've done?"

"Magic?" America replied somewhat stupidly.

"You've made a mess out of everything I was trying to do - as you always do!" He heard a gulp from America and glared up at him, a bit surprised to see no smile or smirk, but instead, the American's expression was something close to hurt. "What?" he murmured, his anger subsiding at the face - as it always did around America.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably. "I ... mess up on everything?" he asked quietly. England looked surprised at how sincerely hurt the boy was. "Well, I don't mean to, I just wanted to be a-"

"I know," England said lowly with an irritated eyeroll. "The whole world knows. It's all you ever say."

"Well I just wanted to help!" America replied in an exasperated tone. He wasn't yelling nor was he backing down, but before England could even dream to reply, their attention turned to the thickening smoke. In their bickering, the cloud had surrounded the two of them and the cauldron was now bubbling dangerously close to the rim, as if it were about to explode. America and England both looked at the cauldron and then to each other, their expressions of worry matched. "Um, what's going on?" Alfred murmured.

"Th - the spell ... " Arthur replied while taking a step back and dragging America with him. "I ... I think it's working."

"Hooray!" His spirits returned, America grinned and started to head back towards the cauldron. "Let's scoop some of that up and sent it right to 'em!" But he was once again dragged back, further this time. He looked to Arthur in confusion, a brow quirked and his eyes watching the shorter man behind spectacles. "So ... why do you not look too happy?" He didn't get an immediate response, so he waved a hand in front of England's paling face. "Yoohoo?"

In his realization, England had nearly fallen into a stupor, but his conscious mind returned when America's large hand covered his hawk-like vision. Pushing the hand away, he managed to choke out a nervous reply. "It's far too strong, and something's wrong with it."

"'Wrong'...?" the America reiterated, turning his head back to the cauldron, which had started to spill over at the top as the bubbles rose and fell quicker than either could count. What either nation failed to look at during this display, however, was the crack that was swooping down the cauldron's side.

And before either could do a thing about it, the large cauldron split open and a sea of crimson came gushing at them.

**A/N:** It's amazing to see how differently you write when compared to one year ago. Yes, this rusty old fic was the very first I ever finished, and was begun back in January. Its chapters vary in length and quality. If you wish to review this you may; but please keep in mind that I don't write like this anymore. At least, not to my eyes. Anywho, these will be weekly uploads and there are seventeen chapters altogether. I hope you enjoy!**  
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	2. Chapter 2

Had he known that jumping over the wall would have resulted in him rolling around with a hurt ankle, Alfred certainly wouldn't have done it. And what a thin ankle it was, too, since it was only in a pair of tights constricting his normally comfortable legs. What was with that outfit? Where was his bomber jacket? And what about those two guys who were chasing him and calling him Rome? He looked nothing like him, or so he would assume since he'd never met the guy. If it was one of the Vargas brothers then perhaps that would make sense, but him, _America_?

Dazed and confused, and now in a bit of whimpering pain, America had absolutely no idea where he was. The last thing he remembered was going to England's house and kicking down the door ... then going downstairs ... something about a potion – '_That potion!_' America's brows furrowed in thought. Now that he wasn't running from those two guys and jumping over walls, he had a moment to connect all the dots. But, England's magic wasn't real. It was all just a joke.

But how else would he have woken up to find two men poking him and talking to him about a ball? America assumed they meant basketball, but they had never even heard of the sport before. And how did he get into such stupid looking clothes? It almost looked like a Hero's outfit, but it wasn't as cool and there wasn't a cape. His dream of being a caped crusader was obviously not realized in this case. But, America wanted some answers, and he had wanted them now. What was he doing there? Why did this look like something France would wear? What did those two guys want? What kind of ball did they play if not basketball?

And, above all, who was Julia Capulet?

That was the first name he thought of when we woke up, and just thinking did things to his heart he never knew were possible. Julia ... the name made America's heart suddenly flutter, a blush crossing his face as he sat on the ground rubbing his sore ankle and grumbling profanities under his breath. "Who is she?" he asked himself quietly, standing up and testing to see if he could use both feet. He felt as though he knew her, but she was also an enigma to him. He didn't know any Julia's, and there weren't any politicians he knew of who were named that. So who was she, and why did she sound so _beautiful_?

As much as the landing had originally hurt, he knew he was fine because he could stand on his weight. Hands on his hips, America huffed and looked around, a bit confused as to where he was now. Some kind of yard, it'd seem. But why? "Aaaugh!" he groaned, tugging his sandy brown hair in frustration, "I have no idea what's going on! It's like I'm really, really hungover or something!" And the last time he had had a drink was at his birthday - boy, was that fun. But, this wasn't a time to be thinking of that. Even America, the infamous daydreamer whose attention couldn't be held for more than a minute, knew that. A frown crossed his face, and he began to walk wearily through the courtyard in confusion.

"Alright," he murmured, speaking to himself, "so I've come this far and no one's seen me." He paused in his steps and scratched his neck. "But, uh, why don't I want people to see me?" He thought that he might have killed someone or something, but why would he do that? "Man, whoever's house this is, it's really nice." He continued to walk and dragged his gaze from side to side, looking for anyone or any clue to where she was. "And maybe they know where Julia is!" Obviously, something was telling him to go to her, and that he was going to do, even if it meant intruding on someone's yard and breaking his ankle jumping over a wall - in tights, nonetheless.

A noise from up on a balcony made his heart pound in a panic, and America froze, looking left and right desperately for a hiding spot, somewhere to escape to. He noticed some bushes and took a rather painful dive at them right as someone walked to a point where he could be seen. Shifting carefully so not to jolt the entire bush, he peeked out of a gap and looked up at the slim figure at the top, who appeared to be looking out at nothing.

But there was something about this person that made Alfred's eyes remain on them. They looked bored, almost, leaning on their hand and sighing. "See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!" he whispered, a tiny, lovelorn smile on his face. "O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!" Only a few seconds after he had uttered the words did he realize that what he said made no sense to him at all. "Huh?" he grumbled to himself, briefly looking away in confusion.

America turned again to look at this mysterious woman as she began to call out to the star-lit night. "O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?" He didn't really catch the rest of it - something about a name and a rose, but he had heard 'Rome' and that was, apparently, his name here. Something in the tone of her voice was familiar to him however ... Proudly, Alfred stood up out of the bush with a bit of difficult and waved wildly up to her. "Hey! Heeeey, that's me! It's Rome!" This seemed to startle the woman, and America wondered why she jumped like she had. "Hey, do you know where I can find Julia Capulet? Or ... or, are you her? 'cause if you are, then that'd save me a lot of trouble!"

She didn't seem to care about anything he had said, because she replied with just one word as her eyes settled on him."You?"

America blinked and rose a brow. She was either deaf or dumb. "Uh, didn't I just say 'me'?"

"That's not what I meant, you dolt; _you're _Romeo?"

Once again, Alfred blinked in confusion. Why did that voice sound so familiar? He narrowed his eyes in focus at the figure, who walked across the balcony and leaned over to get a good look at him as well. But, the moment he got a closer look, America's blue eyes shot open and he did a double-take, one foot sliding back in confusion. "No way! E - England!"

The green eyes and thick eyebrows of the short Nation on the balcony gave his identity away, as did his dialect that America knew so well. The man was still in shock that this was Romeo - this uneducated, English language-butchering, hamburger-hogging Yank! There was no way. Romeo was a gentleman, albeit a little slow, and quick to fall for a beautiful woman. America was slow, that much was true, but he was no gentleman. And this entire time that England had been sitting in bed in a panic, America had been there all along. "Yes, it's me you git. Now keep your voice down," he leaned to look into his own room before leaning back over the railing, "do you want the nurse or my father to hear?"

A blank stare was presented on Alfred's face. "Uh. Nurse? And you actually have a dad? God, he's gotta be falling apart with how old you are!"

Great. And now he was beginning to think he was actually Juliet. England's hand smacked his own forehead in response to his own thoughtlessness. He groaned, gesturing with his other hand for America to hurry up and climb to his level. The American got the signal and pushed up Texas while walking over towards the balcony. A few moments later and with a grunt he was up. He jumped from the railing down to the base and smiled at England. "Well, at least there's someone I kn-" His voice died in his throat upon further inspection of England. No wonder he mistook him for a woman. His small stature made sense, but to back that assumption up ...

He was wearing a nightgown.

A gigglefit was expected and began at this, although America desperately tried to swallow the laughs that begged to come out. England's arms crossed in impatience, an embarrassed blush on his cheeks. His uncovered foot tapped on the balcony and he sighed, eyes rolling. "I know it's a bit odd, but there isn't a need to laugh this much."

"B - but. ... " He ignored England's pout at the nickname as he pointed a shaky finger at him. "You're ... you're a _girl_!" America finally let loose the booming laughter that had wanted out. In fact, he laughed so hard that he had to lean on the railing fanning himself to keep air in his lungs.

England, on the other hand, was much more reserved about him being so loud and shot a hand out to cover his mouth after a few seconds of brouhaha. "Shut up! I am _not _a woman! Juliet is, but that doesn't mean I am." He put his hands on his hips and looked at the now confused American. He gave a heavy sigh and tilted his head, the same old scowl present on his face. Surely, this wasn't that hard for him to understand.

"Who's Juliet?"

Apparently, it was.

England groaned and rubbed his temples in frustration. "Juliet," he spoke through grit teeth, "is who you're looking for." He held a finger up to stop America from talking, because he knew exactly what he was about to say. "Yes, that's her name. It isn't Julia."

Alfred frowned and rubbed his neck. "Okaaay ... so, lemme get this straight. _You're _Juliet?" When England nodded slowly, he pointed to himself with a small smile. "Good! No wonder I was looking for you! I thought I didn't know you, but I guess I did! So, you're gonna reverse all this, right? 'cause it's totally your fault."

Arthur gave another heavy sigh and leaned against the wall of the house and looked at America, who leaned against the railing once more. "Look. I've no idea how all of this happened but I'm assuming what you are as well, that the potion it to blame. But don't put all of that on me! I didn't want to end up in this situation, either!"

England watched America cluelessly tilt his head. "What situation? So you're crossdressing and I'm in tights. No biggie, right?"

"Have you, honestly, no clue what's going on?" he inquired. The circumstances were rather obvious, even to the thickest person. Could he really not see that? Apparently not, for Alfred shook his head with an innocent smile on his face. The British man rolled his eyes. "Figures. I'm sure you've heard of William Shakespeare. I used to read his stories to you."

"Wait, that sucky author of yours?"

England snorted and pointed an obviously offended finger at America. "He was most certainly NOT sucky! Your tastes are just so God-awful that you can't see real literature, even if it slapped you in the face. He was a literary genius, a revolutionist in playwrights! His works are admired through the w-"

"I get it, I get it! Geez!" America threw his hands up in surrender. Man, was that a sour chord to strike. "But what does he have anything to do with this? You're some girl named Juliet-" He took a pause to let the small, goofy smile float back to his face. "Man, that's a pretty name..." He looked at England with lovestruck eyes but corrected himself by focusing on his original train of thought. " ... and I'm a guy named Rome. I don't get it."

How could anyone not have heard of this story? England recollected on how he used to leave books for America to read as a child. He couldn't have possibly forgotten those stories, could he? Or did he just never bother? _'Ungrateful git,'_England thought sourly, a frown on his face. But, this wasn't the time to get sore over the past. They had a serious problem to deal with.

He shifted his weight and collected his thoughts. It would be hard to condense the plot to that certain point. "He's got the whole world to do with this. William once wrote a play called _Romeo and Juliet_- and yes, it's pronounced 'Romeo', not 'Rome'. It's considered his most famous, a tragic love story." England seemed to have gained America's interest. "And now, as it would seem, we're in the position of the ... " He took a breath. "Of the lovers." America blinked in response and rubbed his neck awkwardly, his brows furrowing. He obviously didn't like the sound of that. "That's why you were looking for me - er, for her. Romeo was looking for her, so you were as well. And that's why I was speaking out for him, because that's what happens in the story."

"So," America pondered after a moment of silence, "we're basically acting like Romeo and Juliet? Like, this isn't real, 'cause we aren't ... y'know, dating or whatever these two are." He put a hand on his hip and murmured, "No wonder I couldn't stop thinking about you."

The words from the American's lips brought a deep blush to England's face, and he stammered out, "Y - you were thinking about _Juliet_, not me. And ... and, we're not acting. This is their story, so we're... I suppose that we're acting as them, yes, but we have no choice in it." He folded his arms and sighed. "It's as though they've become a part of us, and we have no choice but to go along with it."

The two nations thought on this idea for a long while before America looked at England with uncertainty. "So, you said they're, like, together, right? Lovers or whatever?" England nodded. America shifted uncomfortable and avoided his gaze. "Does, um, that mean we -"

"Most certainly not!" England exclaimed before he even had a thought to realize what he had said. He noticed how America looked hurt, much like when he yelled at him before the potion incident, and wondered if that was Romeo reacting to the outburst. '_That's right,'_ he thought in surprise, _'I suppose I can't yell at him now or Romeo will react.'_Sighing, he scratched his cheek and tried to grapple with the correct words this time. "Romeo and Juliet are, yes. But you - America - and I - England - are not."

The injured expression faded as his brows rose, and America blinked. "Well ... th - that's a good thing!" Laughing nervously, he rubbed his neck and gave a sheepish smile, the one he always would do when he was either in trouble, or about to get in trouble. "Who'd want to kiss you, anyway? Even Rome's gotta be blind if he wants to!"

"You wouldn't be kissing me!" England groaned, trying to cover the blush on his cheeks, "And for the last time, his name isn't Rome. It's Romeo; Romeo Montague!"

"By a name, I know not how to tell thee who I am," America suddenly blurted in a quiet tone, love and admiration laced into every word. England blinked, taken back some by the articulation of his words - and the fact that he even knew what they meant. He was about to ask what he was saying, but America continued. "My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee." His hand formed a fist over his heart, and he glared to the side. "Had I it written, I would tear the word."

England felt his heart speeding up and his cheeks warming. He recognized the lines immediately and realized how well America was performing them. He was like a thespian without the stage, an actor whose character was a part of his soul, and Arthur found himself indulging in it. He opened his mouth to speak and try to stop America, but words unspoken by him came out instead. "My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound." A hand reached and touched the fist that America held frustratingly close to his heart, England's fingers gently caressing America's skin. "Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?" England's expression of sorrow and worry was an unwilling act, but the feel of America's hand was so _wonderful _that he hardly had the conscious to care - if he had a conscious at all.

America's glare ended abruptly, Romeo retracting back into the confines of his mind, and the boy stared down at the lovesick and saddened England. "Uh, no, I'm America. And besides, I thought you said that we weren't them!" England blinked, seemingly awakening from the grasp that Juliet had held on him. "And let go of my hand!" America jerked his fist away and stuck his tongue out in displeasure. "Blehhh, what just happened? I don't even know what I said! I think we both shared word barf or something."

"Word barf?" England repeated in disbelief of the sheer stupidity of the phrase, if it was a phrase at all. "Er, we just spoke their lines." America tilted his head and England held a finger up. "The story is a play, and each character has their own lines - what the actors would be saying."

America nodded slightly, still obviously lost in all this. "Uh-huh. Care to translate what we just said?"

Green eyes rolled in their sockets. "Romeo and Juliet's families are enemies and - did I mention that?" The taller nation looked completely dumbfounded, so he would assume not. "Well. The Capulet's - Juliet's family - and the Montague's - Romeo's - have a long-lived conflict. They were just saying how Romeo is her enemy because of his name and ... it's rather complicated." His arms folded across his chest and England looked down with a scowl. "That's why I don't want my - er, her nurse or father to hear. You'd get in trouble, as would I, since they obviously think we're Juliet and Romeo."

It was all beginning to make sense to the American now. He held a finger out and proclaimed,"Aha! That explains why Mercury and Benny V were calling me Romeo or whatever his name is!" He laughed and jerked his head towards the wall from whence he leaped. "Glad that I got away from those two; they kept going on and on about a ball, and they had never even heard of basketball! Can you believe it?"

Could he really not pronounce the names of the story? England decided he would have to teach him later. "You mean Mercutio and Benvolio. They're your friends; you shouldn't have run from them! And, that's where Juliet and Romeo meet - a ball." England shook his head and frowned, his brows furrowed. "It's almost ridiculous, how quickly they fall for one another. Romeo had just been obsessed with another girl before he met her." England, in his thoughts, appeared almost sad. He gave a sigh, returning his downward gaze to looking at America. "O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable." He looked to America with uncertainty in his eyes.

America was taken back by this, confused as to what was happening. What did he mean by that? America rose a brow and was about to ask England - or, rather, Juliet - what that had meant, but Romeo decided against it. Instead he took a hold of Arthur's hand, his other arm pulling England close as he looked into those green eyes. Why hadn't he noticed how deep they were before? "What shall I swear by?" he asked firmly.

The older Nation sighed and put his hand on America's cheek, gazing at his eyes through Texas. Those eyes he had looked at so many times over the years, and every time was a different experience. But, it felt like now he was looking at them as if he'd never seen them before, never seen the love reflecting back. "Do not swear at all; or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the god of my idolatry, and I'll believe thee."

Without warning, America jerked away from England's touch and backed up a bit, much to the sadness and shock of the other, and looked at him as though he were a walking entity of the Black Plague. "Okaaaay; so much for us not being all lovey-dovey." England seemed to snap out of it as well and started to stammer something unintelligible, his hands flying to his reddening cheeks before he pouted in frustration. The two shared a gaze for a moment but they looked away soon after. Confused, Alfred groaned and threw his hands up. "Great! I don't even know what the Hell I'm saying but I'm loving it!" His forehead hit the wall of the house. "We need a translator," he murmured in misery, "or a way to go home." This was embarrassing. Here he was in tights, climbing walls, swearing that he loves Engl - _Juliet_, holding his-_her _hand, pulling her close ... and she wasn't even a she! She was a bushy-browed, pessimistic British man!

"I know," England agreed with an exhale of exasperation, "it's incredibly frustrating. But we're in their story, and I don't think we have much of a choice when we do ... that." He looked away, scowling and beet-red. That was certainly nothing compared to what he knew lie ahead. They just couldn't keep their bloody minds and hands off one another for two seconds.

Jones rubbed his chin as he gazed down at the ground, then inclined his head to look at the straw-haired Nation. Even in a nightgown, and even if Juliet's personality was molding with his own, he still looked like England. He still _was _England. So that meant ... "You were around when Shakespeare wrote it, right?" When England nodded in confirmation, America smiled slightly. "Then, you must know what happens next! Maybe we can try to stop it, or at least get ready for whatever happens." It was a good idea, right? He didn't want to suddenly pull England on the ground and make out without having some sort of mental preparation involved.

Arthur's brows rose and he nodded. "Well, I do know the play ... perhaps that isn't such a bad idea after all." Juliet and Romeo didn't know what was to come, but he did. "Let's see," England began, his finger tapping his chin in thought, "we're in Act II, the infamous 'balcony scene.' Thusfar, to condense it greatly, they've met at the ball and fallen in love, and now, as you already have, Romeo scaled the houseside to get up to her." He began to pace in his thought, trying to recall just how it went down. "They ... talk of their family's names and the feud, and how that won't stop their love. We've done that, correct?"

"Basically, yeah," America replied, a bit lost.

Nodding, Kirkland continued to pace. "And then the two of them agree to-" His pace took an abrupt end, and he smacked his forehead and looked up at the sky in disbelief. "Argh! Of course the potion puts us back at exactly this scene! Isn't that just peachy?"

Utterly lost, Alfred poked Arthur's shoulder and leaned to get into his line of vision. "Um, England, what are you talking about?" He frowned a bit and rubbed his neck. "Whatever it is, I'm gonna guess it's bad."

"You oblivious git," England exhaled, grabbing America by the shoulders with a bewildered expression, "Romeo and Juliet agree to elope - "

America smiled slightly. "They get an antelope?"

"No no no! They get _married_!"

Alfred felt as though a ton of bricks had been dropped on his head.


	3. Chapter 3

Married.  
>Married.<br>_Married_.

The instant the words sank into his mind, America leapt back and away from England. He clung tightly to the railing, his heart speeding like a racetrack within his chest and his eyes as wide as dinner plates. There was just no way! "You've been talking to Belarus, haven't you?" he instantly accused, pointing a trembling finger at the equally panicked England. "I don't care what you say; I don't care what our bosses say!" (Alright, so he did care what they said but, in this situation, who could blame him for saying it?) "I'm **not **gonna marry you!" he rejected, shaking his head furiously. "The United States of America is free, single, not tied down by anyone!" He didn't fight the revolution not nothing. And besides, 'The United United States of America' and United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland' was too much of a mouthful for Alfred to swallow.

England should have slapped him while had the chance. "America, get a hold of yourself!" Arthur protested, stomping over and grabbing the taller nation's shirt and tugging him close to his face so he could properly glare at him. "You and I aren't the ones getting married; _they _are: Romeo and Juliet! Our countries will be fine." He released America and sighed, running his fingers through his straw-like locks. "Besides, we're not even in the right era of time for a marriage to affect our Nations." He turned to look at America, who seemed to have calmed down a bit. But, now he looked confused at the proposed idea of their countries remaining untied to one another. "... Do you even know where we are?" he asked sourly, turning his body to face his former colony.

The American's brows furrowed in thought and he looked around as if trying to find a clue. "Well duh," he said with a smile as he pointed to the wall, "we're at Juliet's house!"

Arthur grit his teeth and smacked America on the arm. "Not THAT sort of 'where'! The play was written in the 1500s-"

"Whoa, seriously?" America interrupted with a smile, "Haha! Man, that was when you musta been young, huh?"

"Listen to me for once, you git!" he growled, patience obviously waning in the set circumstances. Would he not let him talk for two seconds? "It was written then, yes, but it's _set _in 1303 Verona, Italy. Since you and I are from 1942, this fiasco won't have any affect on us." He leaned against the wall. "Besides," he commented, "you weren't even around back in 1303."

Talk about a lot going on; going back 600 years and getting married in half an hour. All of this - falling in love and being wed - should have taken place over a few years, not this short amount of time. Were Romeo and Juliet just stupid or something? Alfred scratched his head with a pout, trying to absorb everything that had been happening. "So, lemme get all of this straight," he began. "You and I are supposedly stuck as Romeo and Juliet in 1303?"

England nodded.

"And we pretty much just met each other but we're, like, madly in love?"

"Well ... _they _are, but, yes," England nodded again.

America rolled his eyes."Are you gonna keep correcting me?"

"Get to the point!" the shorter impatiently grunted.

"Alright, alright! And, to top it all off, they agree to get ... married."

Obviously annoyed at all of this tomfoolery, England grumbled, "Isn't that what I've been telling you?"

America groaned and tugged on his hair, pacing on the balcony slowly. He was far too young and independent to get married! And none of this would be happening had England's stupid potion not been so stupid in the first place! "Well, this is just fantastic, England, fantastic!" he hollered in frustration. "While our countries are fighting a war, we're stuck six centuries into the past and getting hitched!" He headed back towards the wall and swung a leg over the railing, still glaring and grumbling to himself. "Thanks, but no thanks." Where he was heading, he wasn't sure. He just wanted to get away from there.

He had to ignore the feeling of Romeo's heartbreak at the idea of leaving Juliet, however secretly painful it was for him as well.

"What? You can't possibly blame it all on me!" Arthur shouted in response, walking over and roughly tugging on Alfred's arm. "Get back up here!" The taller tried to continue in his descent, making England huff and tug harder. "You git, we can't separate or else all of this is sure to happen!" America's attention was caught now, and England let go with a heavy sigh. He took a step back and watched America swing his leg back up and sit on the railing carefully.

"Listen," he spoke as he leaned in and continued in a hushed tone, "these two part ways after their little confab, and everything falls into place; specifically, Romeo runs to find someone to marry them. So," England spoke as he waved his hand, "theoretically, if we don't part ways, then-"

"-he won't run away, and we won't have to get married!" America finished with a hopeful grin. He nodded eagerly in understanding, smiling. "This is good; and I can hide under your bed or something!"

England's hopeful expression dimmed and he shook his head. "I .. don't think so, America. The Nurse might see you, and I can't have that happen." The last thing he or Juliet wanted was for anyone to find Romeo under the bed, or anywhere nearby for that matter.

America instantly looked disappointed and gazed down at the bush in grimace. That would probably end up being his bed for the night, since he couldn't leave. "Aw man, you gotta be kidding me...!" he grumbled, sighing and running his hand through his hair.

"What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?" England asked shortly after, completely changing the subject and making America's head snap to attention again.

"'Canst'?" he repeated quietly before putting all the pieces together. '_Oh no_,' he groaned mentally after a moment of realization, '_he's gone all Juliet on me! What do I do?_' He knew how to talk to England; Juliet, however, apparently didn't know 'regular' English. It would like talking to a wall, America figured. He stood awkwardly watching England as he tilted his head and looked quixotically at America. Before he could decide on talking or running away, he blurted aloud, "The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine." Smoothly he took a hold of England's now rosy cheeks, looking down at the shorter man with passion in his eyes and a serious expression on his face.

Had America known what Romeo had just proposed (pun intended), he would have slapped himself - and England - back to 1942.

Pleased with the words, England blinked up at America with promise in his green hues. He smiled brightly, the color pink spreading more on his face. His smaller hand gently encompassed its larger counterpart. "I gave thee mine before thou didst request it," he spoke gently. America's brows rose at this, a small, pleased smile coming to his face. England nodded. "And yet I would it were to give again."

"Ah," America spoke, "wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?"

But before the lovedrawn Juliet could reply to her Romeo, a voice from inside made England turn his head quickly to look. He bit on his lip and turned back to look at America, who looked confused and lost at what was happening. "I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu!" England spoke in a hushed voice, gently nudging America towards the shadows for him to escape out of sight. "Anon, good nurse!" England called in before turning to see the exiting America off. "Sweet Montague, be true." His hand reached out and touched America's face, with the other pressing his cheek against the hand that held it. As quickly as he had done so, Arthur retracted the action as he slid inside. "Stay but a little, I will come again," he whispered, fading from the American's view on the side of the balcony.

America, who hung from the balcony side, smiled as England disappeared, a gentle blush on his face. He carefully made his way towards the climbable part of the wall, the smile fading as it was replaced with a sullen look. "O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard." He began his descent. "Being in night, all this is but a dream, too flattering-sweet to be substantial." His feet landed on the ground and the crafty Romeo looked around to make sure no one saw before standing still and waiting to see Juliet once more. America's blue eyes reflected the balcony, where, after a few minutes of quiet, England reappeared.

He may have been Juliet in the eyes of the characters, but Arthur had gotten his wits and had control once more. "Now, how the bloody Hell did you get down there so quickly?" England whispered harshly with a frown and a blush. He leaned over the side to see the American standing with a stupid smile on his face. The smile could have fooled the Brit, though it lacked that distinguished, boyish trait America seemed to have. But England knew that Jones would never look that enamored, especially while looking at him of all people. Arthur sighed heavily. '_Great, he isn't snapping out of it._' "Uhm," England murmured before making a shooing motion with his hand, "go away now, thank you."

America blinked, obviously a little taken back by the action. "Love," he spoke with a gentle smile, "did thou not request that I stay? And stay shall I, until cast from Juliet's sight - but nay, from her heart."

He must have been ten shades of red by now. Here America was, standing in his yard, calling up to England like he was some sort of lovesick teenager. Technically speaking, he was. England blushed in (secret) frustration, knowing that none of his words were real. Even in such a ridiculous situation, the stubborn English man couldn't help but find an attraction to the oblivious American. "I am _casting _you away, you thick-headed twat!" Kirkland hissed again, scowling. "I'm telling you to get the fu-"

"Madam!" an impatient but maternal voice interrupted again from within the house, the same as before.

And again England reacted with surprise. Original thoughts and mind set fading, he leaning to look into the room briefly before gazing back down to America. "By and by, I come:- to cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief: to-morrow will I send."

America seemed content in hearing the correct words. He smiled and nodded in understanding. "So thrive my soul-"

"A thousand times, good night!" England called quietly, waving his hand once more as he slipped out of sight yet again.

America waved his fingers in response, a silly smile on his face. His daydreaming expression died abruptly, however, when he looked around to find himself, quite suddenly, on the ground. "Wh - what the _Hell_?" he cried, jumping a bit at the realization. "But I was up ... " He pointed at the balcony, then weakly drew his finger down. "And ... and now I'm down? When did this happen?" He looked around in the grass for some sort of imprint that looked like him. "Did I fall?" Psh! Heroes never fell, what was he talking about? He knew that he was a Hero, anyway; what if Romeo wasn't? Wouldn't that be a bummer?

And, where exactly was England? Lifting his blue eyes to gaze at the balcony, America waited in a few minutes of awkward silence. He was ready to see a nightgowned British man come out, jabbering on about how much he loved the American, or Romeo, or whoever. The sudden and somewhat unwanted thought made him uncomfortable, and Alfred rubbed his neck with a blush on his cheeks. It was so unlike England - and so unreal to boot.

Not like it mattered to him or anything.

That wasn't really the problem now, however embarrassing it may have been. The two of them had managed to find one another, and that was good and dandy, but they hadn't gotten much done other than getting the what's what established. America didn't feel like being in Verona, or whatever town this was, without England there with him. Alfred looked at the grass with a sigh, his hand dropping from his neck in exhaustion. "Maybe we'll just ... wake up and snap out of this," he murmured as he started to head back towards the orchard wall. He figured that he could find an inn or somewhere to stay in - and some McDonald's, if only fortune favored him.

"Wait wait wait; get back here!"

A voice halted him in his tracks before he got too far. America's face brightened up and he turned to see England leaning over the balcony once again. In joy, he trotted back over and waved up at England with a smile. "Heya! Glad you're not in bed yet!"

Nodding in greeting to the grinning America, England took a glance within his room. "Yet," he scoffed, leaning his elbow on the railing and resting his hand on his cheek. "The Nurse is practically harping me to go." He looked down at America and frowned, almost forgetting why he had come back out in the first place. "We have a bit of a problem, though." The younger's smile faded, which almost made England feel like he had killed whatever hope America had left. "Although you and I didn't intent it, Romeo and Juliet decided to go along with their plans to elope." His frown increased and he grumbled, "So much for our plan."

"Are you kidding me?" America groaned in dismay and threw his hands up. "I feel like this is a Vegas wedding or something 'cause I can't remember anything at all!" Whining, he looked up at England with uncertainty written on his face. "But we can stop all of this, right?" England, however, didn't reply, instead casting his gaze elsewhere. "I - I mean, I ... er, _we _can't really get married!" He gave a nervous laugh, although he wasn't finding this particulaly funny at all. "That's just ... it's..." No excuse found its way out, however. Alfred felt a frown tug on his face and he looked at the ground in dismay. There was nothing that they could do now but just get it over with. "... We should just meet up somewhere," he suggested with a shrug, "and see if there's nothing we can't do." It was worth a try.

England nodded and brushed hair from his eyes. "At what o'clock to-morrow shall I send to thee?"

America quirked a brow, his head canting to the side. "We're gonna meet up at a clock?" he asked. Something in England's expression - the confusion - prompted America to groan and smack his face. Juliet - right. "Lemme try that again," he spoke with a sheepish smile. It didn't take more than a second for Romeo to take control. "At the hour of nine," he came up with, a nod confirming the date.

England smiled gently down at America, then sighed and backed up one final time. "Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow." He waved to America before slowly exiting into his room, where America could no longer see him. But, even as he backed away, he was smiling warmly.

"Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!" He blew a kiss up to England's room and smiled, then looked to the wall with a squint. "Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell," he murmured in the darkness, "his help to crave, and my dear hap to tell." America turned and ran back towards the wall that had been his entrance into this entire odyssey and took a leap over it, but not before looking back England's dimly-lit room with a fond smile. Then, with a hop over the concrete, he was gone.

Although, not without nearly re-injuring his ankle scaling the wall again.


	4. Chapter 4

America felt like his head had been put into a blender.

As he waited for England in the presence of Friar Laurence, he sat against the wall and recollected on the last few hours. He hadn't gotten any sleep, and trying to get some shuteye was useless now. America had done more talking than he had in a very long time and couldn't remember half of the conversations he had. One thing was for sure: he didn't feel like himself anymore.

He could hardly remember the long walk to Friar Laurence's cell. He hadn't even known where he had been going until he arrived. Even with Romeo as a map, it was completely unsettling to not see any street lights or cars or people – no sign of technology at all. if America didn't know the route of Verona, Romeo had, and hhad found himself at Friar Laurence's cell faster than he thought. Perhaps the idea of marrying Juliet is what had driven him all through the night, but not without America's complaints. ( God, what he wouldn't do for a hamburger ... )

At first, he was a bit wary of seeing the man Romeo had called a " ghostly father. " America thought that, by that, Romeo had meant that they were going to see a ghost, and America definitely didn't want some phantom marrying him and England. He didn't want _ anyone_ marrying them but, with no say in that particular matter, he would prefer it be a living person and not a spirit.

The strenuous, idle banter they exchanged was all but lost in Alfred's mind. The friar, who was thankfully flesh and bone, had pried at where Romeo had been all in the night. As the lovestruck Montague spoke his pre-destined lines of a proposed marriage, the American tried and failed to keep up. It may have been due to the words they spoke ( America knew he would probably never understand them ) but it may have also been because his thoughts distracted him from reality, instead sending him into a euphoria of England and England alone. Romeo's constant thoughts of Juliet were beginning to take their toll on the mind of the American.

And the thoughts of England made him feel something he never expected to feel when thinking about him. He never thought he would be looking at every detail of England and replaying it like a wondrous film in his mind. The way England smiled last night made America's heart melt ; the ghost-like feeling of the older country's hand on his cheek, one that was so vague in America's mind, made his breath catch in his throat ; the way they spoke to one another made him feel like he could write volumes to England's name.

Gag.

All of had to be fake, a temporary side effect of what America was calling ' Romeo Syndrome ' . He did _ not _love England. Romeo loved Juliet, so he only _ thought _that he loved the other. That had to have been it because actually loving him was … it was completely insane and out of the picture. America just didn't think it was possible to be in love with England – not like he would want to, anyway. But since the beginning of this little odyssey they were on, that idea kept rising like a bubble in his mind, a bubble he couldn't pop, a bubble he would rather avoid.

And thinking all of this over again only made America's face flush knowing that, very soon, he and that same man he didn't love would be married.

_Gag gag gag._

Sighing heavily, America lifted his head from the wall and saw the friar walking around, lighting a candle or two while reciting lines to himself. Alfred drew his legs close to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. His blue eyes looked to the doorway ; still closed. He turned his head so it lay horizontally on his hugged legs and his eyes shut once again.

He had never thought much on what it would be like to get married. He had always imagined, the few times he did think about it, that it would be to a girl with blue eyes that rivaled his own. Her city of origin changed every time, however, maybe because he loved his country too much to decide. But he never seriously mulled it over. He never wanted to think about marrying another country, either. He loved his independence too much, and he didn't fight in the revolution just to lose it in Holy Matrimony.

He weaved a hand through his hair and wondered when England would get there. What was the Brit thinking about then ? America glanced over himself in his stupid tights that, surely, France tailored. He had no tuxedo ; no wedding rings to give ; no real witnesses ; no best man ; no paperwork ; no nothing. It contradicted what most marriages in his country looked like. But, then again, this really wasn't wedding, he realized with a blink.

He removed Texas and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The more he thought about the idea, the more he figured that it could be worse. It could always, _ always _be worse. America was an optimist in that way, and he knew that, even in light of being in the past and being forced against his will to marry England, something could make it worse. He could be marrying some random person he didn't know, or someone he hated. Or, he could be alone in Verona. He could be even dead. He sighed softly and closed his eyes again. Just because it could be worse wasn't an excuse not to say this situation didn't suck. It just didn't suck as much as he first thought.

And, almost as if on cue, the doors opened. America opened his eyes and craned his neck to look left. Two figures stood, although their details were blurred without his faithful Lonestar State to correct his sight. Placing his glasses back on, America stood and saw, clad in a simple white dress not of his or its wearer's true time eras, England with the nurse at his side. The friar smiled warmly at the two and extended his arms in greeting, the nurse standing to the side while England walked forward. " Here comes the lady: O, so light a foot will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint. "

America looked at England in confusion as he approached, and the shorter rolled his eyes. He had learned by now that the look the taller was giving clearly screamed, _' What the Hell did_ that _mean ?_'

The friar continued once America and England stood beside one another. " A lover may bestride the gossamer that idles in the wanton summer air, and yet not fall ; so light is vanity. " With a nod, he turned and walked to retrieve a few items off to the side where he had originally been. The pairs of green and blue eyes watched him before one turned to the other.

" I'll explain all that later, if I can even recall any of it, " England murmured softly as he looked at America. But, just as quickly as he had looked at him, he looked away, pink crossing his face in embarrassment. " Let's just put on a good face and get this over with, " he spoke with a sigh. " This is their wedding, not ours. There's no need to be riled up. "

America nodded, gulping audibly. It made England glance back at him and the American rubbed his neck in embarrassment, a sheepish grin on his face. " Ehehe … sorry, I'm a little nervous, " he admitted. " Not like that's really a bad thing, though ! It'd be pretty weird if I was excited to marry someone I don't wanna marry, right ?"

Arthur rolled his eyes again but didn't reply, instead focusing his attention elsewhere. He could feel Alfred's gaze but refused, _ refused_, to look up at him and into those baby blues he and Juliet both adored. ' _Damn her_, ' he thought bitterly. '_That stupid git was all I dreamt about last night!_!' Not to mention that he had been so hormonal since he found himself as Juliet. As much as he adored Shakespeare, by the end of all of this – if there even was an end to be seen – he would be burning all the copies in London.

The American slowly rose a brow at England's fidgety movements. He couldn't seem to keep still, with his fingers gently tapped his dress-covered thigh and his weight shifted from one foot to the next. Glancing to the side, America nonchalantly, and somewhat unexpectedly, took a hold of England's hand. Immediately, America felt him tense up. Before the shorter could pull away, however, America leaned down and whispered, " So much for not being riled up. "

Dammit, and here England was hoping the younger wouldn't say anything. " I can't help it, " England hissed in reply, slowly trying to get his hand out of America's – despite how something in the confines of his mind begged him, absolutely pleaded him, to keep it there. " She can't go five bloody moments without thinking of him, and it's beginning to annoy me. " His pessimistic side came out as he continued to whisper his bitchings to America. " And, I look ridiculous in this … this tent. " Green eyes glanced down at the dress and he frowned, his blush increasing.

Without missing a beat, America offered a tiny, consoling smile and said, " I think tents look nice on you, then. "

If it was at all possible to die by blushing, then Arthur surely had a death sentence. He glared at America, his face storing all the warmth in his body. " What ? Y – you …! Can't you go a moment without making fun of me ?" Juliet had been pleased with the comment, but he, on the other hand, was embarrassed and a bit angered. He tore his hand away from America's. " Just ... " With a sigh, he shook his head. " Nevermind, git. "

But America persisted. He didn't stomp a foot or raise his voice, instead focusing getting and keeping England's hand in his own. " I wasn't making fun of you, though !"

America's voice was so uncharacteristically soft and sincere that Juliet's conscious nearly awoke in response. England glanced up and knew, knew in the back of his mind that Romeo never complimented Juliet – at least, not at this particular moment in the play. In fact, the marriage was never dramatized. So … where was all of this coming from then ? The genuine look in America's eyes reflected that which Romeo gave Juliet not but last night, that same look that had made England's face heat up as hot as it was now. it possible that America really meant- ? _' No, no_ ' , he scolded himself, ' _he would never_. ' He was too stupid to comprehend complimenting someone – and him of all people - anyway.

" Th – that …" England murmured, trying to find an excuse as to why Alfred had said such a thing. " Clearly, that was Romeo speaking, " he grunted. He frowned with a scowl on his face, brows furrowed. " I'm sure you've never been attracted to a man in a dress before now, America. "

Sighing in defeat, America let go of England's hand and nodded. That was true, he wasn't a fan of cross-dressing. And Romeo probably did have something to do with it, but deep in his heart, in the part that held all his refusal to loving England, he felt like he wasn't kidding. He would never admit that to the shorter man. " That still doesn't mean that I was making fun of you ."

In response, England scoffed and rolled his eyes. " You always poke fun at me. Just last night, you nearly had a hernia when I wore a nightgown !" He glared slightly at the guilty American, then turned his view to stare forward as he spoke with an annoyed tone. " Besides, you were just spouting off about not wanting to marry me, remember ?"

America gave a groan and turned to face England, who was still looking forward. " That isn't what I meant !" he cried out quietly so not to disturb the friar or worry the nurse. " I just mean that- " He trailed off when he saw an arched brow from England.

He waited for America to continue and, when he didn't get any more of a reply, he sighed. Now he wanted to know what he was going to say. " Git, quit cutting off your sentences. You mean _ what_, exactly ?"

'_Aw, shitshitshit, why did I even open my mouth ?_!' America reached and rubbed his neck, trying to find the words that wouldn't humiliate him further. "W – well, last night, when I was out looking for the friar, it was really lonely and I didn't like it. And, y'know, I was just thinking how lucky I am to have someone I know here with me. And you're my friend and everything, so that's even better. " He cleared his throat and shifted his weight Embarrassment was warmly worn on his cheeks. " And … I was thinking about somethin ' . If I had, absolutely had to marry a country – no objections or anything, no compromises, no ' ifs ' , ' ands ' , or ' b- "

"I get it, " England spoke in exasperation.

So much for buying himself time with redundancy. He sighed. " What I'm trying to get at is that I would ... " He scratched his cheek and mulled over his words. Why was this so hard to admit ? It wasn't a love confession because he _didn't love England_. " I guess I'm tryin ' to say that if I had to marry a country, I'd … I'd want it to be you. "

The blush spreading on England's face only made America's own swell, and he stammered out, " B – but, only ' cause I know you really well, and we get along some of the time, and our bosses are really good friends ! If I had my way, I wouldn't marry anyone ever !" He was starting to sound like Prussia. Coughing into his fist, the young Nation murmured, " It's a ' what if ' thing, I guess. "

England knew he shouldn't have been as surprised as he was. Roosevelt and Churchill would instantly want their countries to unite, if a union was ever needed. They shared a language, ideals, and roots, and although their people – just like Alfred and Arthur – didn't always see eye to eye, it would be the safest route to take into the diplomatic future. Although he was no professional on America's relationships with other countries, he was sure there were other options, however. Then again, in reality, if it were ever true, America would likely have little say in the arrangements.

But to be his first choice, out of all the countries in the world, was touching for England. And, for once, he didn't believe that America was lying.

There was a settled silence between the surprised Brit and the embarrassed American, who was now shuffling his feet and trying not to make himself look more like a fool than he already did. Neither of them noticed the friar quietly walk over and set a few things down before looking at both of them. " These violent delights have violent ends, " the friar spoke with no concern over the two lover's previous engagement. They looked at him but as he spoke stole glances at one another, England's being of complete understanding and America's of utter confusion. " And in their triumph die ; like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey is loathsome in its own deliciousness. Therefore love moderately. "

Laurence reached and took England's right hand and America's and placed the smaller in the larger. This time, England didn't tense up or jerk his hand away, nor did America complain like he most likely would have under normal circumstances. The friar then recited some lines from the Bible, words that Romeo and Juliet listened to carefully but which had no meaning to America nor England.

America's heart beat in his chest as a surprisingly easy rate. This wasn't so bad. They stood nice and pretty while some guy mumbled in Latin or whatever language that Bible was in ; he wasn't paying enough attention to care. And sure, England was _ still _cross dressing, and he was _ still _in tights, and they were _ still _getting married, but it really wasn't that bad.

Laurence gave a nod and smiled to the two, the Bible snapping shut ending his part of the ceremony. He gestured with a waved hand from America to England and stepped aside. They both kept their eyes on him before turning to one another at the exact same time, their hands still held together. They exchanged a glance and mutually understood what had to come next: the kiss.

So much for everything being fine.

Kissing England. Kissing Arthur Kirkland. Augh, why did England's lips look so perfect ? Why was he even _ looking _at England's lips ? Oh, right. Romeo. America swallowed and frowned uncomfortably, matching England's equally nervous expression. At least he didn't want to do this, either.

Snogging America. Snogging Alfred Jones. England didn't even want to think about it. He would kiss America when he was a child – on the head, on the cheek. He was an infant and loved the affection he received from his green-eyed brother figure. But Arthur never kissed Alfred on the lips. Besides, he was sure the American would taste like idiocy. The shorter bit his lip and wondered why America looked so perfect, blushing and looking unsure of himself. He'd been looking flawless ever since he laid eyes on the man through Juliet's vision. ( Like he had any physical flaws to begin with. )

But the silence and the awkward staring-at, and possible fantasizing-about, was getting a little too uncomfortable for Arthur. '_This is ridiculous_ ' , he thought, his cheeks warming. " To Hell with it, " he whispered to himself, his face turning a deep crimson as he stood on his toes and kissed Alfred, eyes shut tight, heart beating so fast it felt like it would jump out of his chest and into Alfred's hands.

America had to use his foot to re-balance himself, nearly knocked over by England's sudden – and forced - decision. England's eyes were tightly shut, America saw as he stared down in a stupor at the older Nation. Oh God, oh God, oh _ God_, what did he do now ? He had been kissed before, no doubt about that. When he came home from wars, girls would randomly kiss him and move on to the next badge-wearing soldier boy. Riding across the country on the back of a horse with his fellows, girls from the small towns out west would swoon and kiss him just to say they kissed a chap-wearing, bronco-riding cowboy. But never had he been kissed by another country.

Most importantly, that country had never been England.

It was so awkward, even worse than the silence before. England pulled away a few seconds later and glared at the ground, the reddest shade that America had seen thusfar, but certainly not the reddest he would see during this little ' trip ' . He breathed deeply and Alfred could tell he was trying his hardest not to cry. Arthur had a bad habit of crying when he was embarrassed, or crying when he was upset. Maybe he just had a bad habit of crying ; Alfred didn't know.

America would have started hollering and trying to cover it all up had something not compelled him to gently take England's chin in his fingers and lift his head up. America stared down at the blushing Brit and suddenly didn't feel like he was looking at a one thousand year old country, but instead looked upon Juliet Capulet - his love.

Romeo brushed a hand on his cheek and leaned down, connecting their lips once more. This time it wasn't the American with his eyes open but the Brit, who watched him and wasn't sure who this was – America, or Romeo. He didn't have much chance to think on it, though, because Juliet's arms wrapped around his neck and she kissed him back with the same pressure he gave off. The connection was chaste, but held a certain nature to it, something similar to mutual force – maybe mutual freedom to love one another.

Their lips parted from meeting and the two pairs of eyes opened and looked into their opposite. The expression wasn't exactly what was expected ; in fact, both pairs reflected shock, that awkward feeling settling back between them. America blinked, his face growing redder with each silent second, and England just stared up at him, one large eyebrow twitching slightly while his mouth opened and closed, words trying to escape. Their embrace didn't cease until England released his arms from their loop on America's neck.

America stepped back and looked to the side, eyes wide and blinking, searching for something, something to cover up what just happened. This, he figured, was what the hungover aftermath of parties was like. " I – I … we ... "

"That wasn't us, " England blurted, his body rigid and the color staining his face brightly. He swallowed and released his clenched fists, sighing while trying to be the rational one, as always. " That … that was them. It wasn't us. "

"Not us, " America shakingly replied with an unsteady nod.

" You and I would never do that, " England said.

" Yeah – yeah, right. "

"And at least no one saw. "

America scoffed and glanced to the Nurse, who was preparing to leave. "' cept the nurse and the friar. "

England's eyes rolled and he put his hand on his hip, blush still on his face. " Git, they don't count. No one _ we _know. " He watched as America nodded and shifted his weight, his face in something of an embarrassed pout. England, for a moment, wanted to go over and give him another kiss farewell, although he resisted such a Juliet-inspired urge. It was all Juliet.

He scowled, his brows furrowing as the nurse called to him after a moment of silence. Sighing gently, he smacked America's arm to wake him up. " I have to go now, " he spoke, although his tone wasn't exactly pleased.

The pout on America's visage turned into a frown and he sagged his shoulders. " Oh, " he murmured, " okay. " He shrugged and tried to smile, but only the corner of his mouth twitched. " I'll catch you later ?"

"Yes, " England replied with a nod. " ... Later. " He made no movement to leave, however, and instead continued to stare at America who looked back with equal neutrality. There was something in their gazes that was matched: a longing, maybe ? Neither wanted to separate. Romeo and Juliet didn't want to leave one another for understandable reasons. Newlyweds never parted just five minutes after the ceremony.

Alfred and Arthur's thoughts weren't focused on love, though. They weren't even focused on the marriage, or that kiss that they had just been trying to recover from. They were focused on the past, on the rift that settled between them. It made America think about how hard he had worked for the last half century to reconcile with the other, and it made him remember how lonely the late eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries were for him. As England looked at the uncertain American, he saw the small child who would cry every time he left for England. He saw the teenager who, despite the fact that he was becoming more and more independent, would still be sad when England had to return home. He felt the one hundred years of heartbreak rushing back to him.

Neither wanted to feel that familiar loneliness.

Before he could stop himself, America had stepped forward and had pulled England into an embrace. He put his forehead on the shoulder of the tense other, his mouth opening to speak. But what could he say ? ' I'll miss you '? ' Be careful '? England promised they would see one another again, that's all that really mattered. The kinks and details would have to wait. But never had America felt so needy and clingy to another person. Heroes weren't clingy. Heroes weren't needy. Romeo was, however.

The initial surprise had worn off just moments after it happened, and England knew that America was dying to stay with him as much as he was. Memories of embracing the child as he left for London came rushing back to him, and he felt the same blush rushing back to his cheeks, but in addition, tears started to sting the corners of his eyes. '_No_, ' he whispered in his mind as he returned the embrace. He wouldn't cry – not yet.

They stayed like that for a few more moments before England pulled away and dashed a hand across his eyes. He didn't look back as he turned and started to head over to the waiting nurse by the door. He knew that if he did, and if he took one look into those blue eyes, that he wouldn't leave. One look is all it ever took. He wanted nothing more than to run back over to him. Damn Juliet and her neediness. England scowled, still wishing that this entire situation was done and over with. He couldn't keep his hands off America and couldn't stand being two feet away from him – not to mention that he felt like he was going to cry every time he thought about the other not being with him.

England's eyes closed as the nurse opened the doors to exit the cell when a realization from nowhere hit him. His eyes opened and he quickly mulled over his thoughts as he reminded himself that he had meant to warn America about something. His eyes widened for a moment and he he froze in his footsteps, turning around swiftly to try and catch the American before he disappeared. " Wait, Ameri- !"

But there was no sign of the other, who had obviously gone out the other way. England bit his lip and found his legs twitching to run after him and find him. Maybe if he could just stop what was coming from happening … '_Dammit, I was so caught up in the stupid wedding that I forgot to tell him _! ' England reprehended himself, one hand clenching into a fist. He sighed heavily and turned to continue on his way. Thusfar, things had been going exactly according to the plan of the play.

And England knew that if the story continued on course with the script, then the next time they saw one another would also be their last.


	5. Chapter 5

The door to the cell closed. America's back against its frame, mind racing yet at a standstill all at once. His heart was beating abnormally; these feelings washing over him were so new that he wasn't sure what to make of them. He could still feel the ghost of England in his arms and even the kiss they shared, and just thinking about it all being inspired by England, of all people, brought chills to America's body. He tried, and failed, to cover his ever warming cheeks. Did he _really_ just get married to England? It didn't feel like it at all – except the kiss. He wouldn't kiss England under any other circumstances than a wedding or an incredibly drunk party. Maybe that's all this was: one giant, alcohol-filled party with cross dressing, tights, churches, and weddings.

He wished.

His hand ran through his hair and he stared up at a mosaic in the window in thought. Now what would he do? He was married, whether he felt like he was or not, so did he have to set up a honeymoon? He hoped not. God, he hoped not. What about England? Would he just go home and sit there until he saw it fit to arrange another meeting? And dammit, why weren't hamburgers invented back in 1303? A hand fell to his stomach which growled ferociously. America grunted and leaned away from the door, his blue eyes closed as he mulled over his plans. But there was one problem: he didn't have any.

His arms folded over his chest and he stared out, boredom seething from his body. He recalled how if he ever got like this at home, he would simply grab a video game and play it until someone called him or he found something else to do. That was out of the question now; how would he play one without the console and TV needed? But on particularly nice days, he would snatch himself a plane and go for a flight. He made it so he never had a destination, but that was half the fun in the endeavor. He couldn't exactly do that with the world at war, of course. The threat of enemy attack was still very real in his and his people's minds.

In fact, the idea wasn't half bad. "Might as well give it a swing," he grumbled with a shrug, standing back up. He didn't exactly have a plane to fly around the skies of Verona, but he could always use his legs. Besides, flying wasn't the point. Maybe a destination was waiting for him out there. America pushed open the door to the cell, turned back to look where the wedding had been, and hesitantly left.

People were walking around with or without a destination, but it didn't matter. America mingled into the crowd, not noticed by anyone and yet noticed by all. It was almost like being Canada - if Canada was the son of a prominent figure in Verona, that is. Of course he wasn't, that 'honor' was America's. Alfred wished he had pockets to put his free hands, or at least a soda or burger to hold in them. With a huff, he molded furthermore into a crowd and followed them as they walked in their rags towards wherever they were or weren't going. This crowd was nothing like his most populous cities or even the small cities, but they were still people. They didn't matter to him, however. Only one person seemed to, anymore.

And thus the thoughts of Arthur returned. _Perfect,_ he thought in dismay, _set myself up there._ Now England was, once again, on his mind. This time, he didn't try to desperately change the subject. He had been trying to block all the images and memories of England from his mind until that point, but now he knew that trying to stop it was a vain attempt. He walked, expression neutral, as he thought over what the British man he was coming to think of as a wife was doing. _I wonder if this is how Sweden thinks of Finland,_ he pondered. The frightening Nordic looked to the smaller, gentler-looking Finn as his wife. Were these thoughts what he went through? Another problem: the Nordics weren't _actually_ married. Technically, they weren't either, but technicalities seemed to not matter anymore.

He wished he knew someone in Verona, someone he could run to and follow around and bother. Usually, that person was England, who he had found was not at all fond of being followed while being shouted at over and over again, 'England! England!' But he couldn't exactly be seen with the other, so that wasn't an option.

Alfred turned a corner and noticed three figures in the middle of a square. Behind one of them was a small mob of others, standing out of what he would assume was an argument. _A fight! Awesome!_ He smiled brightly and decided to hunker down and watch the drama unfold. Or, at least, he would have, had his legs not decided to move him right into the center of the argument. _Wait, what?_ he mentally asked, his brows raising. _Gah! No, Romeo, stop! Stop!_ Before he could actually vocalize his protests, one of the men smirked and turned to face him as he approached. "Well, peace be with you, sir: here comes my man," he said, indicating from the person he spoke to and then to America.

Alfred blinked as he came to a stop and laid eyes on this person. He had to bite down the urge to tell whoever this was that he wasn't his 'man'. Something about him made America wary, and he kept a careful eye on him. He felt familiar but also distant, like he was an old friend – or foe. His lips became a thin line as one name came to mind, one name that Alfred didn't know but Romeo knew all too well: Tybalt_._

"Romeo," the jet-haired Capulet sighed while approaching him, "the hate I bear thee can afford no better term than this." Without much warning, he whipped his hand down to his belt and withdrew a slender, long rapier and pointed it threateningly at the taken back American. "Thou art a villain."

Jones' heartbeat suddenly skyrocketed. If ever he wished he had his gun, it was now. England once tried to teach him fencing, although it didn't turn out like either wanted it do. (He had ended up pinned to a tree by his pants.) The closest to sword fighting he knew was how to do battle with a bayonet-covered rifle. He didn't have one with him but found his eyes temptingly tracing a rapier of his own. His hand twitched towards the weapon, which seemed to please Tybalt, but at the last moment his hand dropped and America sighed. He would have loved nothing more than to prove that he was a hero and could defend himself against this man, yet something held him back. But what was it?

America turned his head to crane at Tybalt, who glared at him. The other two stared at him as well, and he stole a glance to them, recognizing them as Mercury and Benny V. He smiled slightly, then looked back to Tybalt, addressing him. "Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee doth much excuse the appertaining rage," he said quietly. Jones had no idea what Romeo was ranting about, but he decided to let him speak. "To such a greeting: villain am I none, therefore farewell." His short stay in the fray was no longer lived, and he turned to walk back away. "I see thou knowest me not." _Well said, Romeo,_ America thought somewhat sarcastically. He seemed to have stalled that Tybalt guy in his blood-bent path, although America only understood one or two parts of his little monologue.

Had Alfred not been turned around, he would have seen the rage on Tybalt's face twisting and forming. He did, however, hear the storming footsteps and turned in time to see a rapier swinging at his face. "Wh-" He had hardly the time to defend himself - if any time at all - and instead tripped himself trying to back up. The blade sliced his cheek and America tried to scramble back to his feet. Tybalt advanced, sword pointing at the fallen America. _What's this guy got against me?_ He knew he had no grudge against him, directly, but Romeo instead, but, again, this was no time for technicalities. He was facing a sword and had neither the knowledge of how, nor the willpower to defend himself. As much of a hero as he was, he was facing a Kryptonite he hadn't seen coming.

The Capulet's anger was showing now. "Boy," Tybalt growled lowly, "this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done me!" He swung the sword so that America's other cheek was sliced and took a few steps back, madness growing by the moment. "Turn and draw!" He grit his teeth and paced back and forth, watching America shakingly stand.

Oh, what he wouldn't give to deck him in the face and show this guy who he was messing with! America's hatred towards both Tybalt and Romeo was rising by every passing second, the urge to ignore Romeo's hold and kill this man rising as well. His stomach twisted and churned as he ignored the twin drops of blood oozing down his face. Blue eyes tried to glare at Tybalt; he tried to shoot one of his little-known but feared stares at the man, the stare that froze countries in their tracks and made them never want to fight him again. But instead he ended up with a pleading expression, Romeo's persona taking hold once more. "I never injured thee," he murmured, "and so, good Capulet, which name I tender as dearly as mine own ..."

His hand reached, pulled the rapier out and for a moment America could see himself charging at the other. But the sword was thrown to the ground and he sighed deeply. "... be satisfied," he quit, still looking with a pleading firmness. He was really surrendering? _Him_, of all people? He could hear the scoffs of the other countries, even if this wasn't his will to do so.

Everyone seemed just as shocked as Alfred was at Romeo. "O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!" Mercutio whispered. America understood the line - it wasn't that confusing - and couldn't agree more.

Tybalt seemed displeased as well. He didn't seem intent on giving up so easily. Gripping his sword tighter, he settled for running after America, who was walking away, and forcefully threw him to the ground. He steered back to stab the American, but he managed to slide away so all the sword stabbed was the ground. With a grunt, Tybalt yanked the sword out and turned it in his hand so he held the slim blade. He caught up to America and stopped him in his path, turned and butted him roughly in the stomach with the rapier's thick hilt.

America fell on his back, the wind knocked out of him and a cough shooting a bit of blood from his mouth. He felt his body unable to move as Tybalt landed swift kicks to his side and sliced almost teasingly at his stomach and parts of his arms. Alfred's eyes were shut and he flailed as madly as he could to try and get the attacker off of him, nothing but the thought of shooting this man in his mind. Why, _why_ couldn't he have had his gun? Why did Romeo have to surrender? It didn't matter to America if this person was his "kin" or not; he wanted to kick his ass! But England, for some reason, rose to his mind, and the thought of hurting someone that England, or at least Juliet, favored was somewhat painful now. The blade tip sliced deep into his temple, blood now flowing down to his eye, and he reached up to try and grab the blade and stop it from its pendulistic swinging, but he found nothing but air.

"Tybalt, you ratcatcher," America heard Mercutio growl, and Tybalt hollered in pain soon afterword. "Will you walk?" Blue eyes opened to see the sword on the ground and Tybalt's wrist in Mercutio's strong hold. He blinked in surprised, dazed from the attack and shaking from the feeling of surrender. The blood on his face and the few cuts on his arm and stomach flowed freely, the pain of his side causing him to hiss and wince when he tried to stand too quickly.

Tybalt seemed to laugh as he swung his way out of Mercutio's grip and took a punch at him. "What wouldst thou have with me?" he asked wildly as the other caught his hand. He tore himself free and backed up, glaring at the friend of his foe.

Smiling wryly as his character always did, he took a charge at Tybalt and called, "Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives!" Tybalt caught Mercutio's charge and threw him against the wall. People had started to gather, staring at the dueling enemies. Punches were blown since rapiers were out of hand and hollers were being yelled. America was still trying to get his footing, Romeo seemingly still in a stupor at the attack he had received. His blue eyes watched and, for some reason, he felt that this was nearly as bad as watching his boys fighting Japan's soldiers and dying as well. Instinct told America that something was going to happen soon, something bad.

Romeo, however, didn't know and managed to tackle his way between the two and holding Mercutio behind him. He turned to look at his struggling friend and hissed, "Forbear this outrage, good Mercutio!" The other paused and glanced at Romeo, who once again had the pleading look in his eyes. America, as he looked into Mercutio's eyes, felt like he was an old friend, someone he knew very well and could tell anything to. He had liked him from when they last had a brush-in; he couldn't understand what he was saying, as was the case with most of the cast, but his tone had made America laugh.

The look Mercutio gave ended and twisted surprise, and America looked back to see Tybalt having grabbed one of the fallen rapiers lunging at the two. Still holding onto Mercutio, America took two steps, stumbling slightly, to try to avoid the sword from entering his flesh. The plan worked as he felt the sword brush past him, his side unharmed.

But a scream from behind made America realize his mistake.

He couldn't hear anything but Mercutio's scream, and couldn't feel anything but his friend's blood staining his shirt and then Mercutio falling. America turned around and caught him in time, Benvolio crying out and sprinting over as well. Tybalt had taken off somewhere but America didn't care about him anymore. This man before him was bleeding and needed help, and he had the urge to find the nearest hospital and have someone help him. That's when he recalled that hospitals were nonexistent and that, unless a miracle occurred, he would die. America began to panic, his hands shaking as he took a hold of Mercutio's sweat-covered hand. "Art thou hurt?" Benvolio dared to ask. America almost wanted to turn and punch him for asking such a stupid question. Of course he was hurt, and it was his fault!

His fault ...

Mercutio gave a weak laugh and shook it off, his free hand covering his blood-drenched side as he whispered a reply. "Ay, ay, a scratch." He glanced to the few standbyers and grinned a cocky grin. "A scratch!" But Alfred had no intention on letting him soak in glory and blood from his wound. He stood the man up and helped him aside, acting as a crutch as Benvolio retrieved their fallen weapons.

A weak chuckle fell from the fallen man's lips. "Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man," Mercutio weakly joked, his face paling by the passing seconds. America swallowed and watched as his fallen friend turned his head back to the running Tybalt and his henchmen, then looked to Romeo and shouted to the two of them, "A plague o' both your houses!" His legs began to fail him, and America slowed his panicked walk down a bit to allow him to keep up. "Why the devil came you between us?" Mercutio asked quietly, shooting America a slight glare. "I was hurt under your arm."

_I know._ America bit his lip and had to look away. His was Romeo's friend, and he had been hurt because of him. What kind of friend was that? And what kind of hero was America for allowing this to happen? His hand clenched into a fist and he closed his eyes in his own pain. His blood had slowed but his side still ached, and the cuts began to sting. Or, maybe, this pain wasn't physical but because he had failed in his duties as a hero. He had failed miserably in this tale, and wanted nothing more than to run away from it all and go back to his time.

And he thought the wedding was bad. He took back all previous urges to leave. He _had_ to leave now.

"A plague o' both your houses!" he cried again, his legs completely failing. His weight made America lose his grip and Mercutio fell, but he was caught once again in time. "They have made worms' meat of me," he murmured, his eyes closing. America shook his head, his eyes widening by the second.

_No. No no no no no ..._

Like an ominous wind through an empty tomb, Mercutio managed to choke out, "Your houses..." His tightly closed eyes relaxed and his hand fell from his side onto the ground, palm covered in blood that continued to spill from his wound. His head rolled slightly and hung, jaw slightly ajar. America could feel his heart slowing, slowing, slowing ...

_Please; no, no, NO!_

Then, the pulse was gone.

America could only stare down at the corpse of what was once Romeo's friend. Benvolio, from behind, sank to his knees and began to cry, his fist hitting the ground, monolouging his lament at the tragedy that had stolen their dear Mercutio. "O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead!" That's all he had to hear to seal the deal in America's mind. He said more, but he couldn't hear him. All America could comprehend was that he was dead. Just a minute ago, he was alive and joking, albeit morbidly, and he couldn't help but reminisce on the hundred and thousands of men who would be alive and joking with him, just as Mercutio had, and be dead the next. He'd seen it so many times that his soldier's deaths were something he forced, _forced_ himself to get over. It was hard and painful to do, but he had to for the ones that were alive, for his people, for himself.

So, why was this death so hard?

_Dead._ America could feel himself talking in anger, obviously as Romeo, and he swore he felt tears mingling with the blood on his face. _Dead._ He felt himself standing up, but it was almost a numb feeling. _Dead._ A familiar voice - was it Tybalt? - from behind, one that made his fist clench and his heart speed up. Dead_._

And the rest was a blur.

For the tense moments that passed, America couldn't feel or see anything. It was as if he had blacked out and some sort of demon had possessed his body to do _something_. He felt himself moving and that was it. The feeling wasn't even a feeling, more like a guess that he was in motion. He wasn't sure what he was doing, though. All he could do was wait and try to ignore the nagging voice in his mind that called him a failure of a hero. He had let a good man die, someone he could have, and should have, saved.

That suddenly became the last thing on his mind as he felt something on his hand. His once black vision came back and he found himself staring down at flesh. He blinked and for a moment believed that it was his own. But it was his hand that held the rapier, his hand that had dug the blade into the stomach of Tybalt, his hand that was becoming covered in blood, his hand that had felled Juliet's cousin.

So overcome with shock, America clutched the sword tighter and saw Tybalt stepping off the blade in vain. He fell back with struggling gasps and America stared at him then down at his now shaking hand. With a small cry, he threw the sword to the side like it was deadly to touch. He had killed people before, but it had almost always been from a distance with guns. That's why he preferred them; he didn't have to feel the enemy die. Now he had. Now his hand was covered in blood and his foe had fallen and was twitching, trying to cling onto life.

America was beginning to panic and his mind once again fell into a blur. He felt his body overheat, sweat mixing with the drying blood on his face and his legs shakingly taking him backwards. Benvolio was screaming at him while people all around were gasping, screaming, crying. Why hadn't he noticed them? Why were they blaming him? It was Romeo - Romeo!

Hyperventilating, he cried out, "O, I am fortune's fool!" His eyes tightly closed and his head faced the sky. Alfred's hands flew to his head and he held it, his heartrate skyrocketing. He heard Benvolio ask something - why he was staying, he would later guess - and America realized that he didn't know wh, except for his shock that he had just killed a man. He had killed men ever since his first war and was used to it by now. But this, this was something new. Never had he killed someone so close to his would-be lover. What would England do?

Oh _God_, what would England do?

Without thinking of a plan, America turned and shoved his way through the crowd, his legs moving as quickly as they could carry him, his eyes set on anywhere but there. His side hurt and his wounds began to open and bleed, blood dripping as he accelerated further. The headache he had now made it feel like the cut on his temple would split and crack his skull open in two. The words of people and the wind whistled in and out of his ears before he could comprehend anything. His blue eyes were wide with terror as he panted and carried on. People were starting to show up at the scene and he could hear voices calling him back, but he couldn't, he _wouldn't_, go back. Running away was something America had never done before.

But now, he had no choice.

"I can't believe I'm actually missing that git."

England had to listen to Juliet sing praises of her Romeo all throughout the day, and he swore to never watch, read, or hear another love story again after this affair. Now leaning against the window, her little ramble finished, England's hands were on his cheeks as they cooled from their warm state. Like he would ever want the heavens to cut America up in 'little stars' and all that rubbish. Shakespeare was a literary genius but this was far too cheesy for England to handle.

Shifting, he folded his arms against the sill and rested his chin as he knelt, staring out the window. He wondered if America had done it yet. While Juliet had been lovingly reciting psalms to her husband, England had nothing but the thought of a slain Tybalt on his mind. He was a pompous ass, and England never truly liked his character. Mercutio was annoying as well. But knowing how it would affect Romeo and Juliet made his stomach churn and nervousness wash over him. He knew he was bound to open the floodgates soon and cry torrents until America arrived to-

"_Ugh_," England groaned, his face reddening in embarrassment. He didn't want to consummate a marriage that wasn't even real - and he certainly didn't want to consummate it with America. America, of all people! He didn't want to know if he was a virgin or not, or if he even knew what consummating was. He just flat out didn't want to. It felt like steam was coming from his ears, and he buried his face in his arms to try and hide his embarrassment. He had no one to hide from but himself and the reality of his emotions.

All of this was fake. His romantic sayings were all pre-written; the kiss they shared was scripted; the embrace ... well, he couldn't say that was fake, since he was almost positive that a bear-hug like that was typical of America. But he was sick of how the storyline reminded him of his shameful feelings towards that stupid, immature, naive, perverted, alien-loving, completely _oblivious_ moron. Furthermore, it more painfully reminded him that the two of them would never have a happily ever after, in the story or otherwise. He further hid his face, quiet falling over his room.

His melancholy melted when he heard footsteps down the hall that filled the area with some noise. He immediately knew who it was and Juliet reawoke in him, all previous sadness fading. He smiled and turned in excitement, letting in the somewhat sullen-looking Nurse who carried something in her hands. "Now, nurse, what news?" he asked with a smile, chiming in, "What hast thou there? the cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?" Juliet blushed gently at the idea and saw the Nurse nod, although she wasn't nearly as enthusiastic.

She threw the ropes down from the balcony and Juliet would have clapped in glee had she not finally caught on to the Nurse's mood. "Ay me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?" Juliet asked carefully, putting a hand on the Nurse's shoulder.

Turning suddenly, the Nurse's face became agonized and England took a step back in surprise. She gave a cry and held her hands to her face, misery in her shaking shoulders and sorrowed tone. "Ah, well-a-day! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!"

England suddenly felt like his world was crumbling in front of him before his very eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Juliet's heart was tearing in two. What was possibly worse was that even if he hated her, England could almost sympathize with her. It was how he felt during Civil Wars: one side of his country battling the other; brother versus brother, with his loyalty lying in both sides. Each Nation knew the feeling and each Nation could agree that it was the worst kind of battle. In England's eyes, every battle was the 'worst'. A path of self-destruction, however, could definitely top the battle chart as being bad.

But she wasn't suffering because of a war; she was suffering because her husband had just murdered one of her own kin. She made her choice clear: that she would stick with Romeo come what may. Nevertheless, the pain of losing her cousin was obvious in her torrent of tears. If he wasn't stuck as the character, he would have tried to help her. Her state of mind had left England with the consequences of hiding his face in his arms on the bed, crying and feeling like he could die at any moment. He must have looked like such a fool. He himself didn't give a personal damn if Tybalt died. He was a pompous ass who needed to turn the 'pride' dial down a few thousand notches. What got to him was that it was Romeo who killed him. Again, he didn't care for Romeo all that much, but it was the man stuck in Montague's position who worried him. He could only imagine how he was reacting to all of this. If he had a heartattack at the idea of holy matrimony, how he was handling this must have killed him.

Sniffling, England weakly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as he turned to stare out towards the balcony. America would be climbing in soon, he would imagine, unless the git somehow managed to find a way to skip over the urge to see Juliet one last time. It wasn't like either of the lovers knew what would happen, but the Nurse had told Juliet that Romeo was a banished man. Banishment was, to them, a separation worse than death. England's heart clenched at the thought that this would be the last time he would be seeing America_._

And what would America do when he saw him like this? He could already hear the American laughing at how stupid England looked. "He won't see," England whispered with a sniffle. Even in Juliet's emotional state of mine, he had control. He was still the United Kingdom, and he wouldn't allow any Romeo-personified Yank to make fun of him for shedding Juliet's tears. He was an empire, not part of a doomed relationship. If it took all his willpower, he'd try his best to compose himself in time for America's arrival.

Turning so his back was against the bedside, he drew his legs in close and rested his chin on his knees. "This is all bollocks," he murmured to no one, hiding his face as he did so. This entire situation was ridiculous. And he knew it had been coming, but getting married had taken up most of his attention. He had all but forgotten about the murder, consummating, comatose, and double suicide that took place in the story.

Well, he supposed that it wasn't called a tragedy for nothing. Maybe there was a bit of hope left. He closed his eyes, hidden from the world, for a moment. Right, and maybe Germany would drop dead and France would take a vow of chastity. '_When pigs fly,_' Arthur thought in pessimism. It wasn't his job to be the naïve optimist. It was America's. Just by thinking of him and his optimistic outlook on life, England found himself silently missing him and wishing he would hurry up and get there. Even if his intention once he got there was less than pleasant, Alfred's company was what Arthur was truly longing for.

America decided that it was impossible to wipe sweaty hands on tights, having tried to no avail.

He was far enough away from the commotion to have allowed himself to continue at a slower pace, a speedwalk, while trying to get control of his thoughts. He looked back countless times and had jumped at the sign of any life that might want to take his own, although it ended up only being a cat that he nearly impaled. (He had quickly apologized to the poor feline, of course.)

As he walked, he stared at his sweaty, shaking hands and tried to find a logical explanation for how all of that happened in less than ten minutes. He shouldn't have been this shaken up. He hadn't done anything; it was all Romeo, wasn't it? This was all a part of the play, right? Alfred didn't know it by heart, but he was pretty sure that getting his best friend killed and slaying Juliet's cousin wouldn't be a part of Romeo's daily agenda had it not been pre-written. It was like fate was toying with Romeo and Juliet. Regretfully, he and England were the ones to suffer.

His stomach knotted at the thought of seeing England. He was sure that he was going to get chewed out, or worse. If _he_ was this upset about what happened, how was Arthur taking it, being Juliet?

His eyes narrowed at the ground as he slowed his pace, knowing exactly where he was. Carefully, unlike the first time he had done it, he climbed over the orchard wall and hopped over. Thankfully, he had landed in such a way that he didn't twist his ankle, something he sighed over in relief, but now he had a bigger problem. He saw the ladder leading to Juliet's room, but would he have the guts to face the cousin of the man he just killed? Of course he would! He was America. But as he took the first step up the ladder, he immediately slid his leg out and scrambled to hide against the wall.

Okay. So, maybe he wouldn't.

"No, no, no," he told himself, shaking his head furiously. "I gotta see him. I gotta see England!" He took a deep breath and grasped the rope ladder once again, his face stern and serious as if he were about to take a plunge into the deep unknown. Whatever was going to happen next was not known to him. He just hoped that England's feelings weren't becoming intertwined with Juliet's, or he would never be forgiven for what Romeo had done. He refused to succumb to the nervous wave washing over him, telling him to turn and leave town without a goodbye. He closed his eyes and began to climb, his mind still racing, his heart still speeding, and yes, his palms still sweating.

Blue eyes watched as the balcony came closer and closer and the railing was within grasping range. He reached out and hoisted himself up. Apparently, though, he had hoisted himself up a bit too quickly, for he pushed himself up to the point where his torso tipped and his head collided with a cement floor of the balcony, legs kicking in the air and pain swirling through his temple. "Son of a _bitch_!" he whined. Clearly, it was 'beat up America' day in Verona, because this was his fourth or fifth injury of the day.

Although, the other wounds were delivered in a much more heroic manner.

England's head snapped up from its resting position as he heard the noise outside on the balcony. Slowly he stood, his nightgown flowing as he moved. (He had first resented the garment, but it really was quite comfortable, a fact he was determined to keep to himself.) He scowled, red-eyed, seeing the flailing legs outside fall to the side. America (who else would it be?) gave an 'oof' and started to stand, and England, for a moment, contemplated sending him off. He thought he didn't feel like seeing the American, knowing what was to happen in the next few moments. Thoughts and feelings were two different things, however. In secret truth, he was more than glad that they were able to see one another one last time.

_'One last time.'_ England gazed down in melancholy, hardly noticing when the curtains parted and a limping America came in. "Geez, why can't these people have elevators here?" he murmured with a glare at the balcony. He looked away and saw England lost in his thoughts. America blinked and tilted his head. "Yoohoo?" His hand waved in front of his ally's face as he leaned down to try and look him in the eyes. "Anybody home?"

"Hm?" Arthur looked up absent-mindedly and scowled at America, smacking his hand to the side. "Knock it off, git! I was just…" His words melted away when he spotted red dripping down from a deep cut on America's temple. He wasn't fond of seeing America hurt in any universe, World War Two or not. He remembered seeing how beaten up he was after Pearl Harbor, and how every time he smiled, he had winced, and now looking at him … He wasn't nearly that badly injured, but in light of the circumstances, with America being his would-be lover, it tore him up inside.

"You're hurt," he murmured. In retrospect, he wished he could have thought of something a bit more original, but originality wouldn't save America from bleeding to death.

The American blinked and smiled slightly. "Duh, I got in a fight." The smile faltered as the fresh memories of the fray rushed back to him, but he shook it off and nodded. "I'm alright, promise."

"Sit," England commanded as he turned to grab a shallow bowl of water with a cloth inside.

America laughed in disbelief. "England, I'm alright! Sure, your balcony almost tried to kill me, but-"

"Sit, dammit!"

Huffing, America obliged and sat on the bed, pouting as he did so. He watched as England came around and knelt in front of him, gently dabbing at the wound with the cloth. "H-hey! What the Hell? That hurts!" he cried, pulling back with a glare. But England put a hand to his shoulder and held him forward with a 'tch', obviously not intending to argue with his childish outburst. America pursed his lips and remained quiet, wincing at moments when he dabbed too hard. He didn't vocalize his thoughts, but wondered why England was taking the time to even clean him up. Instead, he focused on watching Arthur, who glanced and met his gaze but always looked away with a scowl and a blush. It was only a few moments later that America realized something was off with him. "Hey, Iggy-"

"For the _fiftieth_ time, don't call me that!"

"But, your eyes are kinda red," he interjected. America noticed England pause, like he had said something wrong, and he frowned slightly in response. "You alright?" England didn't reply and instead stood and threw the cloth into the bowl again. He watched as the shorter nation went and sat on the other side of the bed, his back to America. "What?" Alfred asked, a brow quirked. "All I asked was-"

"You git," England interrupted without looking back. "Of course I'm not alright!" He frowned deeply, brows furrowing and his face heating up as he finally turned to look at America. "Imagine if _your_ husband murdered one of your cousins and …" His voice began to break slightly, and he took a shaking breath, his shoulders like tremors. "A – and, here you are, stuck as a hormonal, teenage girl, who doesn't know what to do about it!" England sagged his shoulders and turned away. He put his face in his hands. "Damn all of this," he whispered.

America kept his eyes on England and said nothing. He watched in confusion, then stood and walked to England's side of the bed and sat next to him. Before he could speak, England scooted towards the headpost and away from America, which surprised him, and he scowled slightly. "Gee, thanks," he mumbled quietly, pouting and looking in the other direction. He came over to help and he got shot down. "What's crawled up your a-"

"Don't you _think_ about touching me," England snapped, interrupting him. The silence America didn't break indicated that he was confused, so Arthur hesitantly turned to see a baffled America staring at him. "That's why you're here, isn't it?" he grumbled, his blush increasing at the very idea. America didn't reply and instead tilted his head, much like he had when they first got caught in this situation. Perfect, he had no idea. Now he had to explain to the yank what was about to happen. With a groan, he stood up and held his head in exasperation. "You idiot, what happens after two people get married?"

"Their lives end?" America joked with a smile.

England wasn't in the mood for his (somewhat truthful) comedy. "No," he said all too slowly, like his patience was waning. "They go on a honeymoon, typically, and…" He watched America, waiting for him to interject the correct answer. He even waved his hand in gesture for him to continue. But America only watched like a child and England knew he didn't know what happened next. That, or it just wasn't coming to him. "Th – they …" He shifted uncomfortably, his arms wrapping around himself slightly as he cast his gaze to the ground to hide his red face. "Theyconsummatethemarriage," he rapidly spoke, eyes closing, not wanting to see America's face, which was surely horrified. He could only hope he knew what he meant, because he was in no mood to explain what sex was.

Five, four, three, two …

"Wait - _WHAT_?"

How he could have possibly understood the meaning of 'consummate' but not made the connection to marriage was unknown to England.

America began backing up on the bed and nearly falling off the other side, trying to escape. He stared wide-eyed at England in disbelief as if the Englishman had just proposed the worst idea ever thought up. Well, he had. No way was that going to be consensual. He swallowed and laughed nervously. "Y-you're funny, England! There's no way that we're gonna …" England remained silent. "We can't actually…" Again, there was no reply. The feeling he had when he first learned of Romeo and Juliet's marriage came back tenfold. So, the story had shifted from dramatic murder to sex in the course of a few hours? Shakespeare have to have been out of his mind.

Jolting from the bed, America began scrambling towards the balcony to leave before he and England did something they would both regret. However, he turned back and pointed a shaky finger at England. "No way, _no way_ am I gonna do it with you!"

England stood as his ally moved. He scowled at America and stomped a foot, his cheeks warming up in both embarrassment and anger. "You think I'd want to make love to you, either? But that's why you're here!" America seemed to snap out of it and blinked, cautiously eying the upset nation before him. "That's why the ladder was down there; it's all a part of the story!" America glanced to the balcony and England could almost see the gears clicking into place in his companion's mind. His gaze went to the side, and he blinked back tears as he murmured, "That's not even the worst part."

America laughed sarcastically at this and turned to glare at England. "Go ahead and tell me what's worse than this, then!" His outraged comment turned to ash, however, when he saw England seeming to shrink. America's eyebrows rose in surprise and he wondered why he was behaving like that. His answer came immediately after when he heard England sniffle. He was trying to hide the fact that he was about to cry. America frowned at the unfamiliar and uncomfortable sight. He hadn't seen England cry for such a long time, aside from the times that the Englishman was wasted and sobbing at him. Even during the Blitz, England hadn't cried – or, at least, in front of America. But, for some reason, seeing him like this now was killing him inside. "W – wait a minute … Why're you crying?" he asked quietly, watching as England shook his head and glared at the ground.

"It isn't me who's crying, it - it's Juliet." England glanced up and quickly dashed a hand over his eyes. "Like I said before … her - her husband just murdered her cousin. You'd be upset, too."

America sighed. "Right." He shifted his weight and kicked the ground for a moment before looking up and asking, "So, what's worse than … you know, whatever's gonna happen next?"

"C – consummating, you mean."

"_Ew_, don't say it..."

England sighed and sat back down n his side of the bed and tried to collect his thoughts. Juliet and Romeo were unaware of it, but this was, truly, their last meeting. He knew that America was also unaware. He still couldn't believe the boy didn't remember the storyline, but he knew that Alfred's attention had to be elsewhere. He couldn't trudge around on the battlefield with Shakespeare's literature in hand, memorizing the four century year old text word-for-word. "As you know," he began after a long sigh, "Romeo is banished from Verona."

"I'm _what_?" he cried in dismay.

Maybe he should have asked if he was aware instead of simply assuming. _'Right,_' England recollected, _'he wasn't around for that announcement._' "Yes; the Prince decided that Romeo is banished."

"Aw, man!" Alfred whined. That was the cherry on top of the 'kill your wife's cousin' cupcake.

England ignored his complaining as he normally did and continued while he still had sob-free speech. "Tomorrow morning, Romeo leaves for Mantua."

"'Man Twa'? Isn't that some kind of karate?"

"Pay attention!" England rolled his eyes at America's probable ADD and got back on topic. "A few moments after, Juliet's parents reveal that she's to marry Paris – you probably don't know him, but it doesn't matter. He's just a divvy anyway." England paused in his speech when he could have sworn that he saw America's face darken at the mentioning of Paris. Romeo knew him, true, but Alfred didn't. Still, his expression could have convinced him otherwise. "A – anyway. She refuses, and her parents tell her they'll disown her if she doesn't." Arthur cast his gaze sideways, glaring and blinking tears back. "They're bloody ridiculous," he whispered, unsure if it was him or Juliet speaking.

"She goes to Friar Laurence for help, and he gives her a potion of sorts that will put her into a death-like coma." England swallowed, his throat becoming dry. "She … she appears to be dead on the wedding day, and is buried in the tomb." America's attention was firmly on England, and it was obvious that he wasn't liking the sound this at all. "The Friar was to send someone to tell Romeo to retrieve her on the day she wakes up so that they may run away together, but that messenger is an incompetent dolt, so he sends someone else." England paused and tried to compose himself, since he was filling with sorrow again. "And … he has the wrong message to give to Romeo-"

America interrupted, his face slowly paling. "Does he tell Romeo that she's actually ... dead?"

England nodded slowly. "Ye – yes." He saw America's eyes widen and uncertainty flood his face. He felt like he was telling him a scary story and wished it wasn't all about to come true. "So," he continued, his tone hushing as he went on, "Romeo returns to Verona and buys poison, goes to the tomb, kills the mourning Paris, and sees Juliet in her comatose state." He swallowed again, his voice breaking as he watched America. As he explained all of this, Arthur imagined what it would look like, since he would be in a coma and wouldn't see any of it. "Romeo … Romeo says his goodbyes and … a – and he …" He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The words meant so much more when he was telling a prophecy to the person involved. "He commits suicide," he spoke barely above a whisper. He could almost feel America's heart skip a beat as his own had. "Juliet awakens moments later and sees him dead before her eyes. Sh - she takes up his dagger and … " He further closed his eyes, tightening them and trying to get the words out. For some reason, he couldn't. _'She kills herself as well,'_ he finished in his mind.

He knew America understood, because when he opened his eyes America sat down on the bed in disbelief, his knees having threatened to buckle from under him. He stared into his hands, looking as though he'd just stared Death in the face. He might as well have. "No … no way," he whispered. He held his head in his hands. "I can't kill myself," he murmured. He glanced up at England in desperation. "You – you can't either!" England had to look away from the desperate expression in those blue hues. Alfred stood back up and grabbed Arthur by the shoulders. "We can't!" he cried out. "We … this isn't going to happen. We have to … we have to stop it, England!"

"I don't think we can," England spoke sadly, gently grabbing America's wrists and removing his hands from his shoulders. He didn't want to look at America, because he felt like he had just crushed any hope that Alfred had. He grappled for some excuse, some possible shimmer of hope to offer to America. "But … but who knows, maybe by some miracle you're right," he replied weakly, obviously not believing himself. "Well, I'm not a girl, and Juliet is supposed to be. So, perhaps we won't … consummate the marriage at all." _'That'd be nice,'_ he thought morosely. "A – and, then, you won't kill yourself!" He thought about his idea for a moment, and then sighed. "Although … Juliet probably still would," he mumbled with a glare.

For once, it was America who was the rational – and pessimistic – one, despite its foreign feeling. "I... I don't know, England; I mean, we've already kissed and stuff. I think that gender doesn't really matter to him at this point." He sighed. America watched as England sat back down. The other nation still scooted away from him, which almost hurt America's feelings. He couldn't blame him, though. There was too much going on, not to mention that Romeo might start going touchy-feely on him whenever he felt it convenient. "I don't wanna die," he murmured miserably, "at least not now. Not by suicide, especially. What kind of hero kills himself, anyway?"

Again with the heroics. England normally would tire of America's insistence that he was a 'hero', but he couldn't help but agree slightly. No nation before had committed suicide, hero or not. England caught America's sad glance, and it nearly broke his heart. "I thought I'd die fighting some hard battle years from now. That, or a long time from now, and everyone would live peacefully."

England nodded in agreement, his eyes closing as he rested his head against the headpost. "I know," he agreed quietly.

Silence settled between them. England had just delivered their shared prophecy of sex and suicide, and neither wanted a part in it. America traced his finger on the bedsheet while England remained still. It was nearly as awkward as before the wedding, and America wished there was some way for them to avoid everything that was about to happen. He couldn't really kid himself any further, however. Alfred sighed softly, reaching and removing Texas to rub his temples. His eyes dared a weary glance at England, who was staring out ahead of him and wiping his eyes feebly. America hated seeing him like this. He especially didn't like being one of the reasons he was presently like he was, however unintentional his involvement was.

America glanced to the side to put Texas back, then shifted closer to England without Romeo's influence. The older country didn't budge, but he did look at America through the corners of his eyes. Alfred met his gaze and looked into his green eyes, seeing all the years of war and pain and suffering. For some reason, he felt like England had suffered something like this before, this heartbreak, but when, he couldn't place. Still, it wasn't like it mattered.

Alfred wasn't sure who made him do it, Romeo or his own accord, but he would just say Romeo for now. His arm wrapped around England's form and pulled him close, his embrace tender but firm. He could feel the other stiffen up against his side and try to move away, but he held him in place. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, not looking to see England's reaction.

Arthur took a moment to reply, and all he did was sigh and relax slightly in America's grip. They had hugged and kissed already so this was nothing, especially for what was surely in store. (He felt like France, thinking of _that_ as much as he had been.) It wasn't even the embrace that made him pause, it was the apology shortly after. "It's not your fault," he grumbled miserably with a shrug. "And, even if it was, it would be just as m – much my fault." He sniffled and wiped his eyes, not daring to look at America. "This is all just … it's ridiculous." He briefly rested his cheek on Alfred's shoulder, taking some comfort in the contact. He could have laughed, imagining the two of them sitting like this back in 1942.

"Yeah," he agreed, not minding England at all. Neither moved for a few moments, until America glanced down at his partner. "But, I wasn't apologizin' about all of this." He captured England's stare and swallowed. He offered him a small, but sad, smile as he struggled with the words. "It's 'cause you're my closest ally, and we're supposed to protect each other, y'know?" England frowned at him in confusion, not knowing where all of this was originating from. America couldn't say he knew, either. "But the point is, I'm sorry 'cause ... 'cause, I don't think I can protect you now."

Arthur found himself staring at Alfred like he had been possessed, and that voice hadn't been his own. What happened to the stupid, loud, obnoxious American he knew? Romeo was affecting him in romantic ways, but this? He couldn't believe that he would influence something this serious. Arthur blinked as tears began to form in his emerald eyes. He then realized that this was America, not Romeo, talking. England swallowed as his throat dried and his cheeks heated up. '_Dammit all,_' he thought in a whisper as he sniffled. That was all America was good for these days was making him cry. Being a teenage girl didn't help.

He mulled over any words that came to mind and to reply, but all ideas faded from his mind. Even if he had concretely decided how to reply to him, he wouldn't have been able to because America had cupped his cheek, leaned down and kissed him on the lips.

Oh no; no no no no, it had to have been Romeo. It _had _to be him. America would never, _ever_ have added this bittersweet element to his words. He was too much of a git. But what if it was America? The thoughts were starting to drive him crazy, and England didn't know how to react. Juliet wasn't waking up when she should have been. She should have taken control and kissed her Romeo back, but she wasn't. Her timing was incredibly inconvenient, he heartbeat was skyrocketing, and suddenly his room was like a sauna. As the taller nation pulled away, England blinked his wide eyes and felt America's fingers stroking the tears away. He wanted Juliet to wake up. He wanted her to take control. He would willingly give her control if he could, because he didn't want to fall in love with this moment.

The two of them stared into one another's eyes for a few moments before Alfred leaned down and kissed Arthur again. This time, the green-eyed man closed his hues and kissed him in return, Juliet slowly encompassing his personality while England's conscious faded away. England's last thought still lingered on which person had kissed him. In the deepest, most denial-filled part of his heart, he found himself truly hoping it had been America.

His hands found their way around America's neck as the kiss continued until they both broke it for air. England - or, rather, Juliet - caught his breath while carefully eyed Romeo's chest. He put his hand against it, his fingers tracing over America's beating heart and his shirt. There were parts of his shirt and skin that had been sliced from Tybalt's sword, and his fingertips gently glided over the minor injuries. America's hand traced the collar of England's nightgown, both spellbound by the starstruck lovers. If they hadn't been, Alfred and Arthur would have immediately separated and probably parted ways without a goodbye.

"Juliet," America murmured in a low voice, capturing his lover's lips in a passionate kiss. Gently he lowered himself so he hovered over the smaller body laying on the bed, the curtains flowing slightly from the cold breeze outside. The moon was high in the pitch-black sky, and Romeo and Juliet's last night together had begun. And even if they were dormant as the characters stole away their bodies, America and England both knew that the morning would be theirs. However awkward it would be, tomorrow would come and go faster than either would be able to comprehend. America would be heading to a foreign city while leaving England behind to face the Capulet's wrath and a dilemma that would, ultimately, lead to both of them taking their lives if they didn't find a way out


	7. Chapter 7

A breeze pushed the cream-colored curtains into the room from their resting place on the balcony. Outside, a bird perched and landed on the cement railing and peeked into the house. Parents were bustling and a nurse was doing her chores, all in another room. In one room of the Capulet household, however, the youngest member of the family lay in the arms of her new husband, sleeping as the sun shined outside.

The bed in her room was almost too small to fit the two bodies laying on it, one holding the other to their chest. Arms toned with muscles enwrapped themselves around the waist of a smaller form. White sheets were a cocoon around their legs, somehow tangling together during the previous night's activities. A pillow lay near the corner of the bed, the other shared between the newlyweds. Both of their chests rose and fell at a slow rate, a deep sleep cradling both of their minds and keeping them contented. It would have been a normal scene had it only changed three factors: their family feud, one of their genders, and the fact that Romeo and Juliet weren't actually Romeo and Juliet. They were two strong Nations that had, unintentionally, consummated a marriage that didn't even apply to them personally.

The breeze continued in, floating over to the two bodies. Goosebumps covered the more strong-armed man and he gave a grunt, an arm lifting from the waist of his bedmate to flail in the air. Swatting at the cold wasn't helping, so he let his arm fall back down and tried to return to sleep. Slumber, however, had evaded him, though he wasn't entirely conscious either. His eyes closed tightly, trying to block out the sun, but he failed and eventually gave up, groaning in discomfort.

His free arm now hand-down on the bed, he moved to hoist himself up and untangle his legs. However, he was tugged back down and grumbled incoherently. Blinking his blue eyes wearily, he squinted and looked from the open light to down at what held him back. His left arm was underneath a warm body, one he glanced over with little interest.

Okay, so someone was asleep next to him. Who cared who it was? Alfred Jones just wanted his arm so he could get up and get some coffee. He had little interest otherwise. Without disturbing them, he managed to slide his arm out from under their form. Nevertheless, the straw-haired other moaned and immediately took his arm back, clinging on as if they wouldn't let go.

That's when Alfred fully woke up.

"Huh?" America bumbled, blinking in confusion and out of his subconscious state. Whoa. The room was all a blur, as was the night before. But, even without loyal Texas to correct his piss-poor vision he knew this wasn't his room. He didn't have a balcony or curtains. He had a flag on his wall and in here there was none. What did he do last night? He knew that he knew, but it just wasn't coming to him. Why couldn't he remember? Oh well, that wasn't the immediate issue. The issue was who this person was clinging to him. He had been half asleep when he examined them and couldn't exactly remember what he saw, still a bit dazed. But now that he was waking up, he realized that this wasn't a good thing.

America's eyes narrowed slowly. He felt like turning around would be a fatal idea, like he would be looking into the eyes of Medusa. Still, he twisted his torso (legs still in the sheets) to stare at the other in the bed. Still latched onto his arm was an angelic looking England, who mumbled something quietly and held on tighter to America.

For a moment, America watched the older Nation as he slumbered, observed his curves rise and fall with every slow breath, noticed how his face wasn't tensed up in a scowl and he looked peaceful. Then, with a soft sigh, America turned to lie on his side, seemingly fine with England claiming his arm for his own, and snuggled close to the smaller but nevertheless warm body. '_It's just England,' _he thought, closing his eyes.

Wait a minute. _Just_ England?

His eyes shot open just as soon as he had closed them. He could have screamed. He probably _should _have screamed. In a heartbeat he had kicked his legs madly, freeing himself of the tangled sheets and scooting as far from the other as possible. It was, apparently, a little too far, for he took a tumble right over the side of the bed and landed on his back with an 'Oof!' He tried to scramble back up, but paused halfway and wondered why he was. He let himself fall, his arm still held against the mattress, England's sleep undisturbed.

A million thoughts raced through his mind, but the most frequent was '_Oh my God!_' America was heaving, his chest rising and sinking noticeably while he tried his best to compose himself. How could he, though? He had woken up from a good sleep to find England cuddled next to him, and now he was being held prisoner by Arthur's grasp. In fact, England was now sprawled across the bed, having been dragged across when America fell, still clinging to his left arm and pinning him there like handcuffs to a pole.

America had to get his mind together. He began stare at the curtains with sudden interest in the fabric, trying to focus. '_Okay okay, just calm down,_' he tried to rationalize. '_So you woke up next to England; what's the harm in that?_' In that instant, it all came back to him in one giant fell swoop: the conversation of the night before, the foretelling of the play's – and their – future, and he realized what likely happened. "_Please_ tell me we didn't do it," he murmured miserably. He dared a glance down and noticed that he was completely, 100% pantless.

Alfred whined, leaning his head back and his eyes tightly closed. He thought that whenever he would lose Virginia (what he called it, anyway) that he would at least be happy about it – and actually remember what happened. Had it even been consensual? It must have been, since they were both there when they woke up. He couldn't remember anything except talking with England about what their fate would be, kissing him, and then nothing. '_Wait, wait; I remember kissing him,_' he mulled over. Oh no. His hand met his forehead, and he dragged it down across his face, the blush he didn't know was there growing more. Not only had they just slept together, which was still unbelievable, but it had been _him_ that kissed England. "It was just …" He couldn't find an excuse, and it bothered him. "The – the heat of the moment," he whimpered to himself, sinking slightly.

There was another problem: where was Texas? Thankfully, he had enough of his sanity to think about it logically. He glanced up at a small table near the bed and, sure enough, Texas was sitting there. Obviously, it had been removed among other things last night. This was so stupid. _He _was so stupid. He desperately tried to rationalize all of this and find some sort of positive, but nothing was coming to mind.

Instead, he focused on dragging a free sheet down and wrapping it around his waist. America stared out the balcony and wondered how long it would be until he went out and headed towards whatever city he was going to. He forgot the name, but was sure that Romeo would know. This was his entire fault, anyway. The idea of leaving Verona scared him, though, because he knew what would become of England if he did.

Ten of the most awkward minutes in his life passed, although it felt more like an eternity. He fiddled with his fingers, hummed Gene Autry to himself, avoided thoughts of last night, and wondered when they would go home – if they would ever go home. He sighed quietly and shifted so he was turned around. Was England still asleep? America noticed his left arm was free and figured that Arthur had turned over or something. His hands grabbed the bed and he peeked up slowly. Staring at him with half-conscious eyes was England, who was blinking in the early morning light and trying to get his wits about him.

Shit. Shit. _Shit. _America froze, his eyes widening as England obviously came to terms with his surroundings. "Uhm," America murmured as England's brows slowly arched and his eyes opened. "G – good morning!" He smiled sheepishly, failing to hide his nervousness and fear that he would be yelled at. "Sleeping Beauty's aw-"

_SMACK._

England's hands hit America's face and he used that to launch himself away from the boy and towards the other side of the bed. He tumbled in his tangled mess onto the ground with a shout that made America spring towards the opposite side of the room. Arthur dragged the sheets with his fall and ignored the throbbing pain on his temple. He backed up desperately until he was against the wall, beet-red, staring in shock at the bed. England stood lop-sided, stammering unintelligible words as he tried to piece together the situation. He had just been snuggling next to America's shirtless form and found the boy sitting on the ground. Not only that, but he had to assume the worst: that America was just as bare underneath the sheets around his waist as he was.

England's eyes tightly closed. He didn't even want to look at America. "Y – you …!" he shakingly accused. "This is – this is all your bloody fault!" He gripped the sheets more, his knuckles turning white as he did. He began to cover himself entirely with the sheet while scalding America. "You've done some stupid things, but … but this_, this _tops the chart!" He was too distressed to actually care if that statistic was true or not. He knew he had control, for not. He was too humiliated to let Juliet's emotions interfere.

Oh, she was overjoyed. She was happy to have seen Romeo still in her room. But, then again, he had just been banished, and the sign of the morning sun meant only one thing: he had to leave. That was something Juliet didn't want at all. England could agree with her. He didn't want to be left alone to deal with Juliet's parents and the torment of a coma by himself. He would never admit it to Alfred – if he could help himself, anyway.

America looked like he had just been slapped in the face. "It's your fault, too!" he hollered in reply. "I'm pretty sure Romeo didn't just _jump_ Juliet or anything!" He was hit with a pillow, one he threw back towards its origin, hitting England square in the face, nearly knocking him over. He would have felt bad, had England not been screaming accusations at him.

"You – just shut up!" England shouted, throwing the pillow back towards Alfred. He reached for the bowl of water and dumped the liquid to the side. "You're the one who initiated the entire thing!" He chucked the waterdish at America and didn't watch to see if it hit its intended mark, because he was looking for a candle or a sword or _something _to throw at him. A grenade would have sufficed as well.

America, using the pillow as a shield, kept the steel bowl from hitting him and ignored its clattering as it fell to the ground. "If I could have, I woulda stopped him! _You _could have had Juliet … I dunno, hit him or something!" England didn't bother with a reply. Instead, he glared sharply at America as if he was trying to stab him with his glance. "Look," Alfred tried to reason, "us fighting's not gonna change anything. What… happened – well, it happened, and yeah, it sucks." He paused. "But, we gotta try and … will you look at me already?" Alfred sighed. He was trying to get things straight and England was totally ignoring him. Not surprising. He did that more than America would have liked to remember.

But even after he asked him to pay attention, he didn't get any sort of reply. He took a cautious step towards the unresponsive England, his head tilting. "Hey, Iggy?" He saw England raise a hand to his eyes and heard him sniffling, and guilt started to gnaw at his mind. He had made him cry, again. "I - I didn't mean to – geez, Iggy, don't cry!" America waved his hands and bit his lip anxiously. He should have been used to seeing him crying by now.

"I'm – I'm not crying just b – because of that, you git!" England defended himself, his fists balling and the sheets enclosed within. "Certainly, it doesn't improve matters th - that it happened, b – but…" England's eyes closed, tears sliding down his cheeks. He didn't bother to wipe them away now. There was hardly a point. "Ev – everything is coming true, and …" He inhaled sharply and America could have sworn he trembled. "And, the next time I see you, I'll be waking up from a bloody coma just to f - find you _dead_!"

America's throat ran dry. He wanted to protest to England's words, but no one could ever defy the truth. '_That's right,_' he thought forlornly, '_Romeo dies first._' It didn't matter in the long-run. The characters die, and that alone was horribly enough. However, the more America thought about the sequence of events, his gut churned uncomfortably, and his hands balled into tight fists.

"You think I want to kill myself?" America asked with a desperate tone. England looked up towards him and wiped his cheeks, watching his former colony in confusion. "You think I _want _you to wake up and see you in a coma?" America took a few steps forward. He noticed England tense up, obviously not wanting him to approach. He wasn't intending to, anyway. He settled on the bed, his back to England and his hands holding the sides of his head.

Alfred's thoughts weighed heavily on his mind. He had seen death in the form of war and had faced it numerous times. But in war, it wasn't a _guarantee_ that they would die. This was different, he felt. Neither he nor England could positively know if all this would occur, but the chance of them dying was much higher than when they had guns pointed at them. "You go into a coma because of me," he spoke after an uncomfortable silence had settled. America's eyes closed and he shook his head slowly. "You have to die because of _me_."

It wasn't often that America took the blame for anything. He never took the credit for the bad things, and only focused on proclaiming himself a hero in light of good circumstance. For him to be blaming himself was unusual, but England could understand where it was coming from. Green hues looked down to avoid the sight of the blue-eyed country on the bed. "What kinda hero lets that happen?" Alfred finally whispered.

England looked back up as the words came out, and he wiped his eyes again. This stupid boy had gotten the idea drilled into his head because of the First World War. A year - almost two - after America had entered, the war had ended, and he had risen to the world's stage. The eyes of the world were on him from that day forth, and America's ego inflated, causing him to become ditzier, more reckless.

Where was that optimism now? He looked like a country weighed down, the burden of war on his shoulders – literally. America was shirtless still, and England could see the burns and scars of Pearl Harbor on his left shoulder. He saw the scarred flesh and remembered how quickly he and Churchill had gotten to DC after hearing the news. In his mind's eye, he replayed the way that America was bloodied and burned, even if he hadn't been at Battleship Row that Sunday morning, but remembered the small smile America gave that had reassured him that he would survive.

England slowly stood up, still holding the sheet like a robe around his small stature. "Git," he replied. His tone was soft, maybe because he had been crying, or maybe because right now America needed help. It wasn't right for a normally confident person like him to crumble like this. "You don't have any control over this." England sniffled. "If … if we did, we wouldn't be in this bloody mess in the first place." He too sat on the bed, his back facing America. He stared at the spot where he had been sitting and tried to find something else to say. The silence was nearly choking him.

Words bubbled up from in him that he didn't intend to slip out. He didn't intend to let _her _get any control, but, then again, this was her story and not his. "Wilt thou be gone?" he asked, glancing at America. "It is not near ."

America sighed heavily and shook his head. "England," he began, although he wouldn't get very far. "I must be gone and live, or stay and die." Romeo watched the balcony warily and stood up, the sheet still around him. As he reached for Texas and placed the loyal state back in its proper place, America wondered why Romeo was beginning to leave if it was a punishment worse than death. He said something about that last night, although the previous night was such a blur for Alfred.

England was beginning to get desperate. Juliet's words just weren't going to get through to the person he wanted them to. Romeo could understand every word, but America couldn't, and he didn't give a damn about the former, but the latter was much more important. "Yon light is not day-light, I know it," Arthur replied. He cursed Juliet as he kicked his way off the bed and shuffled to where Alfred was. His hand reached and took a hold of America's toned arm. The move was England's, and he tried to think of the words that would get through America's thick skull.

It was that pause that gave Juliet time to resume her speech. "It is some meteor that the sun exhales," she explained, "to be to three this night a torch-bearer, and light thee on thy way to Mantua." She was talking to Romeo, but England wanted _America _to stay. Green eyed closed, and England bit his lip. Her personality was coming and going much quicker now, probably because the story would focus on her the moment that America left. 'I don't want you to leave.' That's all it would take for America to stay, right? He was a hero; he wouldn't want to disappoint his ally, would he? It was childish for England to think that, but, at this point in time, he was beginning to feel cornered and scared for what the future of the play would hold. He knew he didn't want to deal with all of that by himself, and he certainly didn't fancy the idea of America and him dying.

"America." This got his attention, and he knew Romeo had, for the moment, faded away. His forehead gently pressed to the taller nation's back, and he hid his face. The bright red blush was to be expected at this point, but he was going out on a limb and he didn't want to be made fun of. "Pl – please." England tightly closed his eyes, brows knitting as he took in a shaky breath. They had been in a position like this before. "Don't go," he murmured weakly, his normally strong constitution fading. He must have looked ridiculous, but he didn't care. Their lives were on the line. They would both die if America walked out to that balcony and dropped down below. He knew how hopeless it was. But, like Alfred would say, it was still worth a try.

America glanced over his shoulder, a lost look in his eyes. He had said that before. England said that the fateful eighteenth-century night that Arthur broke down. He remembered the hand on his blue uniform's cuff, tugging desperately, crying against the rain, begging him to stay. He had walked away – but he didn't have a choice. Now, when he absolutely didn't want to leave, when they couldn't help it either way, he couldn't stay. He had to go.

He turned. England's hand dropped, but America caught his wrist and his attention. Alfred looked at England and tried to speak, but nothing would come how. He had a feeling that even saying anything would provide Romeo room to say something stupid (and something he couldn't understand, of course). '_I have more care to stay than will to go_,' he thought to himself. It was a few moments after that he realized that Romeo had thought it, and he would have groaned, knowing that they could infiltrate their minds, too, had the situation not been so serious.

America took a breath and tried to talk again. "Eng-" He wasn't sure why, but calling him by his title felt odd with the circumstances. "Arthur," he spoke. It felt odd. Saying his human name felt too … personal. Maybe that's what he was going for. It got his attention, but America had trouble following it up. "I …" Nothing else came out.

They shared a glance and during the quiet moment, a mutual understanding passed through their eyes: there was almost a guarantee of no escaping this. America could lie and say that he would try not to leave – which he would – but they both knew that he had to and would. England looked down, defeated, and America followed the glance, still holding Arthur's wrist in his fingertips.

What could they do?

Alfred's brows rose when he felt England's hand move so he was returning the gentle grasp. He looked at Arthur in slight confusion. "It'll be alright," Arthur spoke quietly. The tone of his voice betrayed his words. His shoulders shook, and he inhaled a trembling breath. "It'll – it'll be alright." Was he trying to convince himself? America? Both of them? America didn't know. Neither did England.

He wasn't normally one to be so openly vulnerable. He was usually able to control any fear he felt and wasn't one to hold someone's hand and cry. Juliet wasn't like he was, though, and her influence on him was growing. Later, England felt like he'd have to justify his ridiculous actions to America. He was half surprised the taller one hadn't made fun of him already. Then again, they were going to die. Making fun of someone he knew would be apparently dead the next time he saw him wasn't like America, England figured. It wasn't like any human.

America swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. England's hand was gripping America's tighter than before, and Alfred returned the squeeze. He wasn't convinced by England's words. He felt that their speaker wasn't convinced either. For now, he would stay silent. He moved so their foreheads touched, and he was almost surprised that England returned the motion, nudging him back, as if he was desperate for the contact. America closed his eyes. Romeo was the one trying to comfort Juliet. If he had his way, Alfred could have grabbed Arthur, skipped the comforts, and would be sprinting as fast as he could to Mantua. But, he couldn't have his way. He felt like he never would in this nightmare. "Y – yeah. It'll be alright," he murmured in reply.

America would guess that this is what crushed hope felt like.

"Madam!"

Their heads snapped to the door, where in came the nurse looking frantic. A blush crossed both their faces at the same time at her raised eyebrow. America was about to open his mouth to explain the circumstances but England had already shoved him away – so hard, in fact, that America tumbled in a roll to the ground with a grunt. England shifted uncomfortably and looked to the nurse, expecting the worse. America was rolling around, tangled in his sheet and trying to stand up. "Help me!" he grunted to England, kicking him in the ass with a flailing foot.

England's eyebrow twitched. He whirled around and snatched America's angle and gave it a tug. "Don't kick me again, you git," he shouted.

Even with the dark circumstances, they could still be their old selves if it gave them a reason to hold an argument.

"Your lady mother is coming to your chamber," the nurse spoke with franticness seeping into her voice. "The day is broke; be wary, look about!"

'_Don't remind me,_' England groaned mentally. He saw America struggling to get into his pants, and he turned bright red, his glance turned away. He noticed the Nurse eyeing Romeo with a bit of interest as he tugged his tunic on. A wave of jealousy washed over England – no, it washed over Juliet. Forget that this was her nurse and she loved her, and Juliet didn't have a single jealous bone in her body. No way was it England. '_Ridiculous,_' he thought with a grunt.

America hair was tussled and wild from the sheets being tugged on and off his head. He tripped slightly, rising too quickly, and landed against England's back, causing the smaller, less than patient form to crash onto the bed. Alfred fell on top of Arthur and remained there briefly before he remembered that he was on his way out. He figured that, given the circumstances, he would have rather remained laying on top of a naked-under-the-sheet England on a bed than head outside and to his death. He snatched England by the arm and ran to the balcony, leaving the nurse alone in the room.

America moved to take off already, Romeo's adrenaline scaring him into leaving. He put his leg down over the balcony and descended. One foot remained on the balcony floor with his hands on the railing. He took a breath and prepared to go down, but England's hand on his wrist stopped him. "O think'st thou we shall ever meet again?" Juliet asked, eyes filled with pleading as they looked down at Romeo.

It wasn't Romeo looking back. It was America, and he didn't need to understand the Shakespearean speech to know what he asked. (He didn't understand him, anyway.) England's eyes told it all. He watched, his face calm but his eyes sad. He hoisted himself up so his once bent legs were straight and he hung onto the railing as he stood. He looked down, one hand taking England's. Arthur blinked and looked up at America. "England-"

The older country cut him off, visage filled with worry. "America, you have to go." England's tone made it seem like he was at war within himself. He was, conflicting over whether America was better off running to Mantua or staying and risking death. Dare they defy the script, even if past attempts at dodging Shakespeare's will were in vain?

Alfred shook his head like he would as a child, when he was being defiant and was disobeying England. "No," he whispered. "I don't want to." His eyes were shut tight.

England wasn't sure, but he thought he heard fear in Alfred's voice. America was strong and refused to show any sign of weakness, any Achilles' heal, so fear wasn't ever in his confident voice. Arthur bit his lip. "I – I don't want you to, either," he replied quietly. He wanted to leave the conversation at that and have him stay. "But you have to. You'll be killed if you don't!"

"I don't care," America hissed lowly. His hand trembled from the lack of balance on the balcony. His eyes opened, head tilted down. When he gathered his courage and words, he looked up, blue eyes looking into green hues, like he would pierce straight into England's heart. "I don't want to leave _you_," he spoke. If he left, they would both die. But if he left, he would be breaking a promise he made to himself: that he wouldn't leave England behind in this mess.

Before England could reply, Romeo took over and reached up, pulling Juliet down into a kiss. The two kissed desperately for a moment before Alfred pulled away. For once, he wasn't blushing at England. "I _won't_ die," he spoke with a determined voice, his fingers gently tracing England's cheek. Romeo looked to the ground and back up again, whispering, "Adieu, adieu!" And with that, he scaled back down to the ground. With one last, forlorn look up to England, America choked back a shout and turned, heading towards the wall – and to Mantua.

England's eyes didn't leave the fleeing form until he was over the wall. Even then, Arthur could imagine America running to the main road out of town. England's grip on the railing tightened, and he had to choke back a cry. One hand went to his mouth to keep a sob from escaping. His green eyes closed, and England felt that familiar urge to cry rising once again.

The next time he would see America, he would be dead on the floor of the Capulet tomb.

"Ho, daughter! are you up?"

The call of Juliet's mother awoke the Capulet daughter inside England. Arthur's conscious remained on Alfred. He turned, his body becoming numb and his senses fading slowly. He said _something_, but he couldn't determine the words. '_She must be taking control,_' he thought with an almost uncaring sigh. He would have to suffer with Juliet for the next few days until the stupid girl put herself into a coma. Fear gripped England's heart. After all of this, after this struggle with this girl, her problems, and her hormones, it would end with a coma and suicide. He swore the last action he did consciously, in control of his body, was ball his hand into a fist. America promised not to die.

He would hold it to him.


	8. Chapter 8

It was quiet, as any early morning should have been. It was also lonely as most nights for him were, but Arthur found the loneliness to be absolutely terrifying. Most of the time, being in bed alone was something he found himself preferring over the idea of spending the night with someone. However, now he longed for company to save him from the quiet room and the atmosphere that came with it. It left him alone with thoughts he didn't want to think, ideas he didn't want to ponder on.

The bedsheets were pulled to his waist, his knees sheltering his face. Arms wrapped around his legs, hugging them close to his chest. The singular candle lit in the room barely illuminated it, light not passing well through the turbulent darkness. It didn't bring him any comfort.

Juliet had been quiet for some time. Then again, for the last few days, she'd been more active than England, and he was almost thankful for it. She had to endure the wrath of her father, her mother's cold-heartedness, and surely felt like the world was nothing but a weight on her chest, threatening to crush her love for Romeo. At least, that's what England felt like. Take out Romeo and replace him with America, and it was a bingo.

Where was he now? Was he alright? Was he safe? Where there people with him? How far was he from Mantua? Did he even know _where_ Mantua was? And, perhaps most importantly, was he thinking about England as much as England was thinking about him?

He swallowed. Lifting his tired eyes from their hiding place, he rested his chin on his knees and stared out into the darkness. He knew what he had to do – or what Juliet wanted to do. And he wanted no part in it. Mocking death wasn't the way out of her arranged marriage and out of this misery. If only she knew that her false death would lead to the real thing, to the end of her life. His hands gripped the sheets covering his legs. England's eyes closed, his brows furrowed.

No. He couldn't think about that _thing _in the drawer beside the bed.

His eyes glanced to it nevertheless. Inside the top drawer was a vial with God knows what inside of it, and that concoction was the very thing that would stop his breath for some duration or other – two and forty hours, according to the Friar. Lo and behold, Romeo would be waiting for Juliet when she awoke and the two of them would escape and live happily ever after. What a load of crock.

But, Capulet was desperate. She was desperate for her husband; his touch, his voice, his presence. Being promised to a bachelor she didn't love wasn't on her agenda. But getting himself killed over some girl and her foolish love story wasn't a plan of England's, either. He was determined not to fall into temptation and drink that … _potion. _If not for himself, then he wouldn't drink it for America. He could only imagine the look Alfred would have if he were found in a coma in a tomb, which he surely would be if he drank.

Still, England caught his hand slipping towards the drawer. He woke his senses and jerked his hand back, moving to sit on it and ensure that he didn't make a very fatal mistake. "Damn all of this," he grumbled. He knew all along that temptation would come when Juliet's moment of decision arrived in the plot, but he would have never dreamt that it would be this hard to resist.

England glanced out to the balcony and sorrow filled his eyes. Just a few days before, America had been scrambling out that same window to run away. A few days before that, he had climbed up for the first time and nearly scared England half to death. How foolish it was, for two people like Juliet and Romeo to fall in love in such a short amount of time. It was completely unrealistic. He and America, however, had known each other for years and years – centuries. Maybe that wasn't so unrealistic, or so he would hopelessly wish.

Climbing from his bed, he laid a hand on the table. His fingers drummed the surface, temptation to end all of this grief growing with every tap. No, no – England grit his teeth and jerked his hand away from the drawer. He continued to his original destination, arriving out to the balcony. The curtains were gently blowing and required almost no pushing aside, the wind having done so for him. He wrapped his arms around himself, the late night - early morning breeze chilling him and making his dirty blond locks sway. The nightgown he seemed so accustomed to by now flowed as well as he made his way to the railing.

England laid his eyes on the moon. The white surface reflected in his green eyes, and he felt himself wanting America's company. The balcony seemed much lonelier without him there. The feeling wasn't a good one. His hands gripped the railing righter, and he had to breathe in a few deep breaths to keep his emotions under control. '_Don't cry. Don't cry._'

He looked out to orchard wall. He still expected to see America pushing his way over the orchard wall. America always had a way with finding England, even if he didn't want to be found. Why was it when England actually wanted to be found, that America didn't have the capability to do so?

His arms rested on the steel railing. England dipped his forehead to meet his arms, and he took a breath of the cool night. This empty feeling was beginning to make him nauseous, and not with disgust like it normally would. This was the feeling of hopelessness, that there was no point in anything. He had already cried enough, how could he possibly want to cry more?

He closed his eyes against his arm and straightened himself back up. He reopened his eyes, gaze cast out over the yard. He imagined, beyond the wall surrounding the Capulet yard, that there was a road leading to Mantua, and America had been walking on it. England wrapped his arms around his torso and bit his lip. He knew this feeling from his own experience, and he thought he'd never feel it as strongly as he had in the past.

The pain of the Revolutionary War came rushing back to him. This time it was worse; that same familiar pain with a different twist of the knife in his heart. During the war, the teenaged America hadn't been in the position of his significant other. This time, he had been. England had a taste of what it was like to be 'loved' by America and he found himself breaking, being crushed by the idea that he'd never feel that again.

A hand clutched over his heart, and Arthur dipped his head. His teeth bit down on his lip, and his breath quavered slightly. It shouldn't have hurt this much. He had nights in the past where he never found rest because of the pain of losing America. He had gone through a century of heartbreak over his former colony. After the Great War, however, much of his depression had faded. America had grown into someone that wasn't his colony; he was a young and strong country, naïve in some ways and wise in others. There should have been no reason to cry over him anymore.

And yet, the tears still kept coming. He still was resentful towards Alfred for what he did, still got upset at America's insensitivity, still drank his troubles away, and still tried to cling to the idea that he hated America. It didn't exactly work. He cried also because he knew why he was still so upset at Alfred; why, no matter how hard he tried, America still popped into his mind at all the times he didn't want him there. Arthur tried to deny the truth. Again, it didn't work.

The situation at hand certainly didn't help the point of denial he tried to hard to make. As he tried to keep himself from crying the tears that desperately wanted out, England cursed all of this for reminding him that he was stupid for falling for someone like Alfred F. Jones.

In frustration, England sharply turned and walked away back into the chambers, face hot and fists clenched. Without bothering to close the curtains, he sat on the side of the bed and stared out ahead of him. He could almost feel the ghost of America sitting on the other side as they argued but a few days ago. England glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was just imagining it, which he was. He looked forward again, his elbows on his knees and his fingers lacing through his straw-like hair. '_What if this mixture do not work at all?' _he heard himself asking as his eyes glanced to the drawer again. '_Shall I be married then to-morrow morning?'_

"No, no!" he hissed. This was driving him bloody insane. He moved away from the drawer and from temptation, fingers digging more into his hair and tangling it a bit. It was starting to drive him mad. He closed his eyes, brows knit in a deep furrow. America made a promise not to die. If he didn't drink that vial down, then they wouldn't have to come close to risking it at all. But, then again, if he didn't drink it, he'd be married to Paris and would likely never see America again. England wished that Shakespeare had bothered to write an alternative ending that would open a new route for them.

Did they have to follow the plot? The question would never be answered, no matter how often it popped up. It would seem, given all that's happened, they had no choice or free will. England wondered if this was the time to change the path of the story. He had the power to do it, if he could just lie back down and go to sleep…

His thoughts had distracted him long enough for Juliet to swoop in and take control of his body. As he mulled over the possibility of leaving the plot as it was, and trying to figure a way to get to America, his hand crept along the side of the bed like a spider, reached into the drawer, and took out the thin vial. England sighed quietly and decided he would force himself to sleep – even knock himself out, if that's what it took; anything but drinking that tonic. Arthur moved to lie in bed and looked at his folded hand curiously. "When did…?" he asked, uncurling his fingers. The vial lay in his palm, his index finger and thumb playing with the cap at the top.

England looked in disbelief. She was truly determined to go through with this. His stomach clenched and he closed his eyes tightly, trying to fight off the thoughts Juliet was thinking. All of them were nonsense fears and the 'what if's' of her plan, the possible loopholes or outcomes she wished to avoid. She was such a stupid girl. If she knew what was coming in her future, she would have much more to be frightened about.

"O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, environed with all these hideous fears?" he thought aloud, Juliet's words slipping out as if on cue. England decided it was futile to try and fight her thoughts and speech, and instead focused his own mind on trying to find a way out of this mess. He stared down at the poison in his hand, enclosed by his fingers and protected from harm. He tried to shake his hand and release the glass within, but his hand remained tightly closed. His knuckles were white from grasping so desperately onto the vial. It was like it was a lifeline for Juliet, one that would ironically cut her life short.

Arthur had moved so he drew his legs up and lay on the bed as if he were preparing to sleep. He didn't hear whatever Juliet was rambling on about and thought to try and get some sleep before she woke up again. He sighed quietly and closed his eyes.

In his mind, instead of darkness, he swore he saw the raven-haired cousin of Juliet shouting out for revenge on Romeo. His eyes shot open and he stared up at the ceiling. "Methinks I see my cousin's ghost seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body upon a rapier's point," he whispered as he stared up at the air above his head. "Stay, Tybalt, stay!"

England shot up to a sitting pose. His brows furrowed slightly and he stared at his hand again. His heart raced as thoughts of America floated into his mind. That idiot was all England could see; that boyish smile and eyes that shamed the sky. He hadn't seen that smile in a few days because of all the drama and his heart ached for it again.

It was an odd point of view for him to live in. When this fiasco was nothing but a story book, he would contemplate how America was across an ocean but was so easily reachable by any means. In these circumstances, he was only a city or two away and surely hadn't gotten far, but he felt further away from him, further than any landmass or ocean that could separate them. "Romeo, I come," he murmured.

England's thumb and index finger pushed the cork out of the small vial. For a moment, his and Juliet's thoughts clashed. One wanted to see her husband so desperately that she would put herself into a coma; the other begged her to come to her senses or he would lose his life. The liquid inside had a silver sheen, clear the rest of the way through. Juliet gazed at the poison and saw Romeo. Arthur looked into it and saw death. However, he was starting to see America's face in the reflection as well.

Juliet's desperation had bested him, and he unwillingly signed a death warrant for the two of them to share._ "_This do I drink to thee," he whispered. Quickly, in one gulp, the liquid was down his throat as he raised the vial to his lips. England grimaced slightly at the taste; it was similar to the smell of rubbing alcohol. Wiping his lips across the back of his hand, he noticed how the world began to turn into a haze, unclear and undefined. Chills ran from his core all through his body but he didn't shiver. This was the cold feeling of poison sweeping through his blood vessels and nerves. It was making him feel weak; his pulse was slowing and his breath was catching. He swore he could see America right there with him, but maybe it was just the start of a dream.

And just like that, he was gone. His eyes closed and he fell back to the bed, his body going limp as he met the mattress. His chest rose and fell so barely that it could be mistaken for no movement at all, no breath on his lips. His heartbeat, slowed greatly, pumped little blood through his body, making him look chalkier than his normal complexion gave away. The vial rolled out of his now open hand and landed on the ground, slipping under the bed and out of sight. Arthur had fallen into a dreamless sleep where time and space meant nothing, and only two and forty hours separated him from America and Juliet from her Romeo.

The next morning, Juliet Capulet was declared dead.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm so sorry this is late, you guys! I've been to Hell and back and haven't had time to update this. However, I should have it completely up by the end of summer, and I already have a new one waiting to be uploaded. Thank you for being so patient!


	9. Chapter 9

The field of golden blades of grass swayed in the warm breeze. The main road was some feet away, but for now the road wasn't a friend if it ever was to begin with. America had exhausted himself of all the traveling – and he forgot how slow horses were, in comparison to cars or planes.

The black stallion nibbled on a patch of live grass – a rare treat – as its rider lay close by, his back on the ground and his head gazing at the mid afternoon sky. His arms were above his head, hands as a pillow. One leg bounced on the other's knee, and he had a piece of wheat in his mouth. It almost reminded him of the nineteenth century, the old cowboy days where exploring the unknown west and riding the plains was what he loved to do. It was a shame that this wasn't the Great Plains and that he was running for his life, or he would have dove into the memories further.

With a quiet sigh, he plucked the wheat stock from his mouth and flicked it away while picking a fresh piece up. Replacing it, he watched the fluffy clouds overheard and wondered why he felt some sort of storm coming in. The weather didn't show any signs of turning dark or dismal, but deep in his heart he felt like something was wrong. '_With that weird dream, though,'_ he thought with a shrug, '_I wouldn't be surprised.'_

His eyes followed a thick patch of clouds as it slowly passed overhead. The horse looked at him and he glanced at it for a moment, and then sighed again. "I dreamt my lady came and found me dead," he explained to the equine (although he wasn't sure why he was talking to a horse in the first place.) "Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!" The horse had lost interest in its rider and turned instead to eating once more. America sat up in thought. He wished he could have stopped talking, since this was clearly Romeo rambling again. Alfred didn't take up talking to horses as a habit, so it had to have been Montague. There wasn't any use in fighting his jabber mouth, however, so America kept quiet and let his inner Romeo continue talking to absolutely nothing. "She breathed such life with kisses in my lips," he spoke with a dreamy smile, "that I revived, and was an emperor."

Didn't Japan have an emperor? Why was he living in Japan if England woke him up? Or was it a metaphor? America shook his head and wondered if he would ever understand whatever these people were talking about. He figured he wouldn't and decided to head out again, before it got too dark. He jumped up and brushed himself off, dirt and bits of dry grass on his clothes, and started to prepare himself for the journey when another person rode up on a chestnut horse, heading towards him. America felt like he should have known whom it was and chalked it up to being one of Romeo's friends. '_Wonder what he's doing out here,'_ he thought to himself in little interest. He continued to prepare to get on his horse, but as he readied himself to take a step he thought again. '_Maybe he's here with a message from England?'_

Lowering his leg, he looked to the boy, who hopped off his horse, and ran over to him with a wide grin on his face. "News from Verona! How now, Balthasar!" So his name was Balthasar. Romeo knew him, obviously. "How fares my Juliet?" His smile turned warm at the mentioning of Juliet, although Alfred noticed that Balthasar winced at her mentioning. "Nothing can be ill, if she be well."

The brunette boy hopped off his horse and nervously fiddled with a cap in his hands. He looked down at the dirt and kept his face that way, and Romeo's patience was thinning. America stepped forward, the smile on his face faltering from the hesitation this boy had. "Well?" he asked, getting the boy's attention. America could tell by the tone that it was his own impatience that was pushing the news, not Romeo's.

Balthasar sighed quietly and hung his head in shame. "Then she is well, and nothing can be ill," he murmured. For a brief moment, America felt like everything would be okay. He didn't question why Balthasar sounded so sad when he spoke; England was alright, so everything was okay, right? That's how it was going? But his next words shot those hopes down. "Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, and her immortal part with angels lives," he continued, his voice shaking. He closed his eyes as if he were afraid to be struck by Romeo or yelled at. "O, pardon me for bringing these ill news," he concluded, finally looking up at Romeo with eyes expecting anger.

America's smile was long gone. Instead he stood looking at this strange, yet familiar, boy in questioning. He didn't quite catch all of that, only bits and pieces, but he wasn't sure how to react to it. Well, Juliet was dead. But Arthur was alright, wasn't he? Maybe he split away from her at the last second and managed to escape. Surely, that was the case. England wouldn't let a silly little girl's fate affect his own. He wasn't that stupid …

Still, a feeling of pain was rising in America's chest. It felt like his heart was trying to escape from his body, like someone was trying to rip it from his chest. Didn't Arthur say something like Juliet only went into a coma, but she wasn't dead? So, was Balthasar lying? Or did he not know any better? America was becoming confused. England said that Juliet was just in a coma, but Balthasar said … He closed his eyes tightly. '_What's going on?'_ he mentally begged. He wanted to explain that this was all a giant misunderstanding, that Juliet was _alive, _that she was okay. He couldn't bring himself to do it, however, because Romeo's soul was being overcome with grief.

Without warning, Montague took over and America's hands balled into trembling fists. "Is it even so?" he murmured, his eyes reopening. Romeo started backing up and away from Balthasar. He turned and started to walk in a random direction. Balthasar reached a hand for his friend but was pushed away, and he tried to walk again. It didn't matter where he was walking, because he couldn't escape the reality that his wife was now dead. A few paces in, and angry tears were welling in the corner of his blue eyes. Romeo bit his lip and sank to his knees, a fist beating into the ground in rage as he shouted, "Then I defy you, stars!" His free hand clutched his chest, and he cried on the ground with Balthasar watching, and America unable to get control.

America couldn't feel the tears falling from his face, as these were Romeo's and not his, but he still felt some grief in his soul. He had seen things like this before, although the roles were usually reversed: a wife receiving news that her husband was dead. They never spoke as oddly as these characters were, and God knows why they were speaking in such a weird way, but their sorrow always affected him in a way he couldn't explain. It wasn't sympathy, but it wasn't empathy. How could it be, if he had never lost a significant other before? Every time he delivered a letter and a flag, it hurt him to see the reactions, the look on the faces of the ones left behind, knowing that their son, or their husband or boyfriend, had died for him.

Juliet hadn't died for her country. She hadn't even _died_, yet Romeo felt that same heartbreak that America's citizens felt. He felt bad for the boy, and wished he could have told him that she was really alive. He wanted to explain it to him, but had the worst feeling that it would do no good.

Romeo had since gotten up and, in anger, mentioned something about lodging and getting papers. Alfred heard him say he would "hence" that night. What did that even mean? What was his plan? If there was one major downside of sharing a being with Romeo, it was that he could never read Montague's plans even as he was the character. He was forced to go along with it until the very end, and it was often too late to do anything about it.

Romeo's conscious was much more awake now. He sent Balthasar off to do something and now he was left alone. America forced Romeo away for a second to try and get a grasp on what was going on. Balthasar hadn't even mentioned how Juliet had 'died'. Couldn't Romeo see that there was something suspicious going on? But, then again, if he had heard that his wife was dead, he wouldn't exactly be looking for loopholes, either.

Alfred sighed heavily and closed his eyes, wiping whatever tears Romeo had left unfallen away. Geez, this guy cried so easily. He must have looked so pathetic. He looked over his shoulder at the path to Verona, then craned his head towards Mantua. He didn't move to it. Instead, Alfred only stared down the road to Verona again. The play said that Arthur was alive; the character said he was dead. Which one was the truth, and which one was the lie?

Walking to his horse, America hopped on and led the stallion down the beaten path to Verona, in Balthasar's steps. He had to go back. He couldn't tell if it was him or Romeo who was in control. Both wanted to go back to Verona, the idea of banishment not on either mind. Alfred only knew that he had to find out if Arthur was all right. That's all that seemed to matter.

America wasn't sure how long he had been riding. He would guess an hour or so, since the sun hadn't sank very far in the western sky. It was probably five or six – not like the time mattered. Alfred had the nauseating feeling that something was going to happen, something far worse than whatever had happened up to that point. But nothing _that _bad could happen, right? It would all be okay in the end, right?

"As I remember, this should be the house." America glanced up at a building before him. It was small, more like a stone hut than a house at all. It looked run-down and in horrible condition – why was he there? This couldn't possibly be the tomb; this wasn't even Verona, only the outskirts. What did Romeo have to do here? It smelt, but not of anything America could name off the bat. It reminded him, however, of the trenches and the bodies of people in warfare. It reminded him of death, and chills ran up his spine.

Alfred wanted to turn and continue on his way, but Romeo had since taken over. He approached the door and knocked on the rotting wood, crossing his arms and leaning back. "Being holiday," he mumbled with a small frown, "the beggar's shop is shut."

However, the door swung open, and America could see through Romeo's eyes a short and stout man, hunched over slightly, at the door. "What, ho! apothecary!" Romeo spoke, and America wondered what an apothecary was. He'd heard the word somewhere, but what did it mean? He also wondered why Romeo had called the man a ho, but that wasn't as important.

Their conversation was brief and quick-winded. The element of speech in the story didn't help, and America soon found himself lost in what was happening. He kept up only in the actions: the man backed away and tried closing the door … Romeo bribed him out with money (go figure) … and the man handed him something. Romeo looked down, and America saw a tube in his hand. It wasn't small enough to be hidden in his grasp, but it would fit if he hid it within his clothing. But, why did he feel the need to have to hide it? What _was _it, anyway?

Back on the horse he went, and America traveled faster down the path to Verona. America wished he didn't have to go; he would have rather looked further into that drink the man had given him, but just thinking about it was enough to make him feel like he would throw up. Still, he knew that England could very well be in trouble and he had to go to him. His determination to help Arthur was greater than his growing fear of returning to the place from whence he was banished. Would England be walking around, waiting for him? Would he be asleep on a bed of stone? Or would he be in a coffin, dead?

He didn't have much of a chance to think about it, because he found himself passing the sign to Verona's entrance. Romeo glanced over his shoulder briefly at it, and America felt the temptation to leave rising in Montague. Immediately as he came in, he could hear people gasping and crying out his name like he had returned from the dead. '_He's got some guts coming back here,'_ he thought. '_Mantua doesn't sound that bad now that I think about it. And besides, England can take care of himself!'_

Wait, _what_? If he had control of his body, he would have slapped himself. What was he even thinking? Romeo seemed to get the message as well, for he once again focused on getting through Verona and to the tomb of the Capulet family. '_Don't be stupid, America!'_ he scolded himself. '_You're the hero, aren't you? Being Romeo isn't gonna change that!'_ He was still the hero, and he still had someone to protect.

If he was alive, anyway.

Everything started to slowly pass by him like a blur: the people, the places, everything. One minute he was alone, and the next Balthasar was seen on the roadside waiting for him. One moment he was on a black stallion, and now he was on foot with his friend. Day was beginning to turn more and more into night and by the time they had reached their destination, the sky was turning purple and navy. Stars were very slowly beginning to pop up. Polaris showed its ever-stoic face, and Romeo looked up at it for a moment.

America remembered how England said the North Star guided sailors back home; as it was the only point that would never change. He wondered if that was true, and wondered if a star could really guide people home. The star wasn't his map, but he felt like it was leading him to the tomb – and to England. The star rested above the tomb like a sign that made America feel like no matter what he had done differently, he would have ended up there.

Romeo was talking to Balthasar, who was listening, but America completely toned him out. It was one of his monologues. It wasn't like he'd understand him anyway. As Alfred thought more on the tomb, the more he began to fear what he would find inside. Someone had spotted them earlier and ran off – who was it? Was it a friend of Juliet's there to visit her? Or was it someone Romeo would have to kill?

Balthasar quickly left, leaving Romeo alone. He leaned against a stonewall that surrounded the tomb and glanced to the right. A gate leading into the tomb was only a few feet away, but Romeo seemed wary of going in. Alfred wondered why, and got his answer soon after he pondered it. He stepped towards the gate and spotted someone standing outside the tomb, carefully caressing the door like he had to protect it. America didn't recognize him. He was about as tall as America with chocolate locks and green eyes, which showed themselves when he turned to look behind him. Romeo's fists, however, were clenched and his teeth were being grit together. '_Great,'_ America thought dismally, '_another guy I'm probably gonna have to kill.'_

"This is that banish'd haughty Montague," he spoke while frowning at America, "that murder'd my love's cousin, with which grief, it is supposed, the fair creature died."

Whoa, whoa, _whoa._ 'My love?' England was cheating on him the entire time? America almost went slack-jawed at the thought when an idea dawned to him. England had mentioned someone who kept trying for Juliet's hand, some guy named Paris. America frowned and figured this was the guy. So Romeo did know him, and he probably had a reason for being upset. Seeing the guy who liked your wife standing outside her tomb was a little more than just awkward.

America could almost sympathize with Romeo. Jealousy, or something like it, was raging in his stomach, an uncomfortable feeling that America wished he could have gotten rid of. '_Wait a second,'_ he thought. '_England said that Juliet poisons herself because some guy is gonna marry her-'_

This was the man who may have very well cursed England to death.

It was a somewhat ironic turn of events. America had previously been wishing that Romeo wouldn't kill this man, but now he was beginning to think otherwise. Paris didn't know that all of this was his fault, but America could have cared less about Paris. He didn't care about Juliet or Romeo, either. He only cared about England, and the fact that Paris had jeopardized his well being made America want to kill him.

Now Romeo had taken the side America was once on, begging Paris to leave. "Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man," he begged. Romeo shook his head and cast his gaze to the ground and to the poison he had bought, which was in his pocket. "Fly hence, and leave me." Paris didn't reply, and Romeo looked up with desperation. "I beseech thee, youth, put not another sin upon my head by urging me to fury. Be gone!" His hands flew forward and he shoved Paris slightly, even if he was pushing him closer to the tomb doors.

America had no say in what happened next. His anger had faded, and he found himself again sympathizing for Romeo. He remembered how messed up he had been after killing Tybalt and how he, himself, was affected. Still, could Paris be forgiven? Romeo didn't know that he was the cause of all this, either. Hell, he didn't even know that Juliet was alive. Was she alive? America had been trying to think that she was, and that Arthur was fine as well, but Romeo's influence was taking a toll on his optimism.

He had two paths to believe: the script, or the characters around him. Deep in his mind, he knew the script was right. But he felt that deep in his heart, he was beginning to think otherwise.

America snapped out of his thoughts when he felt something in his hand, a familiar feeling. He glanced down and saw the rapier from his belt now held in his hands, and Paris was drawing his own sword. The brunette man lunged at Romeo, and the fight began. Though, this wasn't anything like the fight with Tybalt. Tybalt's fight had been pure rage, and America couldn't remember any of the details. This time, Romeo had a goal of getting inside the tomb and getting Paris away from Juliet. His sword thrusts had meaning; his feet moved with purpose. He avoided any injury, other than a few cuts to the hand, and was winning by the look on Paris' face.

Alfred was a hero; he always won. Why did he find himself _not_ wanting to taste victory? He didn't want to kill another person. He just wanted to get into the tomb peacefully. But conflict was always around the corner for Romeo. Asking for a peaceful route was blasphemy in this tragic tale.

It was over as quickly as it had begun; Paris lying on the ground with a gruesome wound to the side. America dropped to his knees by the dying man's side in a moment. Was Romeo regretting his actions? Or was he going to strike the final blow? In his hand was his rapier, but he didn't seem intent on causing this man any more suffering – or ending it.

The rapier was finally dropped, and America tried to look into Paris' eyes. They were closed, his face contorting with pain as his breaths became labored. "If thou be merciful," he managed to croak out, taking a pause to hiss in pain, "open the tomb, lay me with Juliet." Paris didn't open his eyes. He only grit his teeth and tried to even out his shaking breathing as his hand clutched his wounded side in vain.

It was painful to watch, someone suffering like this. Alfred winced and turned away slightly, remembering the same sight with every war he'd been in. He had done this damage, though, and he couldn't take it back or help him. For once, he understood the command of the character and gently swooped him into his arms. He almost dropped Paris, but had fallen to one knee to steady himself in time. Had the man stopped breathing already? He glanced – and sure enough, his chest was still and his head lolled to the side. Alfred closed his blue eyes. He couldn't focus on Paris now.

He tried to stand again and managed to get himself up with Paris in his arms, and he turned to face the door. '_I guess all the strength of being a nation is gone now,'_ he thought in dismay, '_since I'm not a nation anymore.'_ He was Romeo Montague, not the United States of America. If he were still a nation, picking up one fully-grown man would have been a simple task. He could pull England's cars and swing buffalo, but now he couldn't even keep a dead body in his arms. His shoulders slackened a little more at the idea. How pathetic.

As he stepped towards the tomb door, he craned his neck to scan the height of the tomb. It didn't feel right going in there. He couldn't bring himself to open the door and go inside, not without mentally preparing himself for what he would find. Leaning against the stone frame of the door for a minute, he looked down at Paris and then out at the darkening sky. '_I never thought I'd be in a situation like this,'_ he thought with a hollow laugh. He was carrying a dead man into a tomb, the same tomb that held his 'wife'. "God," he whispered as he turned back to the door, "I mean, _if _You're up there, just…" Alfred swallowed the lump in his throat. "If You're there, then let England be okay." That's why he was here. The small flicker of hope that he was alive was dying quickly, and America didn't want it to go out.

There was a time when Alfred had a religion, when he believed in God and the purity of the world. But after all the bloodshed he'd seen in his unusually long life, he had turned away from any faith. Faith couldn't explain the unexplainable things he had seen, done, and been through. For him to pray over someone he was quickly finding himself caring for was a leap of faith he didn't have in the first place.

Thoughts cast aside; Alfred pried the door open with some difficulty. He slipped inside the darkness soon after, and the door closed behind him as the outside world faded away.


	10. Chapter 10

At first, Alfred didn't see any part of the actual tomb. It was too dark to see, even if he wanted to (which he really didn't). He did, however, see light in a doorframe down the path and assumed that was where the main hall of the tomb was. "Okay," he murmured, adjusting the corpse in his arms before leaning forward to walk. It felt like his feet were nailed to the ground, but he managed to lift a shaking leg up to move forward, despite his numerous, and annoying, mental protests to turn and run. No, he absolutely wouldn't leave. Romeo needed to see Juliet, and America wanted – _needed_ – to find England.

Slowly he began to walk down the path, Paris in his arms, and an unsure look on his face. It didn't feel right down there. The air was warm as he approached the source of light, but he still felt a numbing cold on his skin. As quiet as it was, his mind was racing with questions and thoughts he couldn't slow down. It was contradicting, conflicting, and was starting to frighten him. Who in their right mind enjoyed being in a tomb, anyway? But _this_? He never expected it to be this bad. It was the feeling of hopelessness. Emptiness. Death.

He turned the corner through the arch and faced a large room with a high ceiling and stone walls on all of the three sides (since he was coming in from the fourth wall). All around him, hanging from the walls or on various surfaces, were hundreds of white candles lit, leaving a sweet aroma and light in the room. It was so deceiving, like trying to cover up all the darkness and despair down in the tomb with warmth and breezy aromas from candles. Alfred stood in awe for a moment at the building before noticing something odd about the walls.

He glanced over at one wall and noticed rectangles that had obviously been put into the wall after construction. Alfred noticed plates on each square, and there were at least half a dozen, if not more. It was obvious that the skeletons of past Capulet's were inside the inserted squares – caskets or something like them, he figured, or pull-out beds for bodies. Chills ran up his spine and goosebumps rose from his skin; he had to look away.

Alfred craned his head forward and saw further in the tomb was a risen stone slab, like a bed, with candles lay all around it. He frowned in realization as he made out a figure on the slab, clad in a white dress. They rested with their head facing up, hands lying over a fresh bouquet on their chest. The body laying in repose looked so peaceful, as if asleep.

He had a feeling that he knew who it was, but America didn't register it until he stared long enough. Nausea gurgled in his stomach when he saw the light blond, straw-like locks on their head. And, he could only imagine the green eyes that were closed in comatose. The body of Arthur Kirkland was completely still. People breathed when they were in a coma, right? They were still alive. Why wasn't he breathing? Was he really…?

Making his way to a somewhat dimmer part of the tomb, he set Paris down and ignored the bloodstain now on his chest from the boy's fatal wound. He looked back to the stone bed where Arthur's deathly still body lay, and he made his way back to the center aisle of the tomb. Candles were lined on either side of the aisle, and America slowly started to make his way over. He felt like his limbs were weights trying to tie him down. Torn between a need to know if England was alive and the fear of what he would find, America paused in his steps and began to walk backwards. His skin felt clammy and his palms were starting to sweat. He quickly glanced down to his hands, which were beginning to pale, and then looked back to the stone slab. His right foot stopped retracing his steps and he steadied himself, freezing in his place.

Just looking at the sight wanted to make him fall to his knees and tear out his heart. Alfred could imagine the anguish Romeo was feeling, the anguish he could slowly feel creeping up to his conscious. He swallowed thickly and started walking again, more hesitant, like at any minute England would popped up from his lying pose, look over, and ask what he was doing there. Then they would get out of that dismal place and find a way back home to the Second World War. Wanting to go home to a global fray sounded crazy, but he would take the toil of war over this invisible pain any day.

The longer he looked at how still England was, the more his hope was killed. He couldn't look away, for some reason. Before him was the person who had raised him, despite being away for long periods of time. He was the one who taught him how to shoot a gun, and who had the gun turned upon him. The one person out of every country America knew the best, besides his brother, was lying before him, seemingly dead. There was something so _wrong _about that. Memories rushed back into America's mind and he could feel his breathing get deeper as he tried to keep from sobbing. It shouldn't have been that hard.

Standing before England, America walked around to the other side and knelt beside him on a free space on the risen stone. He looked up, trying to make himself believe that it wasn't Arthur. He looked too peaceful to be the scowling, stubborn Limey he knew. But everything about his appearance screamed that this really was England, the person he'd been desperately trying to reach. And here he was finally there by his side, but he was too late.

America rested his chin gently near Arthur's ear, and he glanced over him again. In normal circumstances, he would have laughed at seeing England in a dress. Now, it wasn't so funny. "If you could see yourself," he spoke after a moment, his hushed voice reverberating off the walls in the silence, "you'd probably be having a heart attack." The smile he wore was so weak, so fake. Perhaps he was trying to fool himself that this was all some crazy dream, and that England was back at Juliet's house, leaning over the balcony where all of this began, waiting for him.

He took a trembling breath in, and his hand brushed against England's fingers. They were cold as the stone the body lay upon. Alfred moved his hand to adjust some stray strands of straw-like hair out of his ally's closed eyes, but it just fell back in place. He replayed the scene he'd see all the time at meetings: Arthur scowling at his bangs, trying to keep them from falling. The shorter nation would even try to fix America's bangs, although that never worked out either. As Alfred watched him, his eyes filled with sorrow. He would give anything to see movement from Arthur – any movement, even if it meant him being punched for being too close or strangled for being a 'git'. Anything to know that he was alive.

All the times he was lonely without England hit him like a train as he stared at Arthur's still body. The nights when he cried during thunderstorms as a child, because England wasn't there to comfort him, rushed into his mind. So did the few times after the revolution when the stress of being a nation, as well as the utter loneliness, had gotten to him. Still, they were nothing like how this felt. Arthur was even there physically, unlike the other times. Nevertheless, the knowledge that his long life was over was what brought the heartache and loneliness rushing back to him tenfold.

Then again, he also never had the influence of love in those past times. Romeo's influence, and the love he had for Juliet, began to seep into America's emotions. He recalled the feeling of Arthur in his arms; how surprisingly comforting it felt to hold him like that, for whatever reason that may have been. Arthur had become fairly open about his emotions, thanks to Juliet, and America had enjoyed that brief glimpse inside of England's heart. He enjoyed being treated more like a friend than an ally, even for a few days as two lovers.

Alfred was so transfixed in his thoughts that the quiet dripping of something on the floor almost startled him. He blinked his eyes a few times to try and see what it was that made the sound – there it was again – before he realized that his vision was obscured. That was odd; Texas was in its place, so what was it? Quickly rubbing his eyes, America was surprised to feel the back of his hand become wet. He stared at his hand, seeing a few teardrops fall onto his hand. He'd been crying the entire time…? Why hadn't he felt it? Was he truly that numb?

His other hand slowly reached and touched his damp eyes, fingers trying to catch the tears. His eyes were wide, and his head ached even more. Tears were still rolling down his cheeks when he laughed weakly and looked back to England. "Now … now, you're m – making me cry," he croaked. Of all the people in the world, it was _him_. England. Arthur Kirkland, the one person he never wanted to cry in front of, or for.

England's still body was breaking his heart the longer he looked at him. '_He isn't coming back,' _he thought in misery. He turned so his back was to the stone bed, slumped weakly on the ground. He didn't bother wiping his tears away, and his breathing was becoming sporadic. '_He's gone…' _Drawing his knees close, he curled into a loose ball; and America let himself cry. He didn't care about how pathetic he looked. He didn't care about who it was that was crying, because he _knew _it was himself and not Romeo. It didn't matter anymore.

Two different souls were clashing in the same body. Romeo wept openly for his wife, while America wept for … what was England to him now? He was an ally, of course. But was he _more_? A rival? A friend, maybe? Or was America wanting him to be all of those things? Romeo could say that his wife had died. But, America couldn't describe what England was to him. Saying he was his friend was going out on a limb; England never seemed keen on being friends. An ally? That wasn't enough. He wouldn't have been crying if he was just an ally. What _was _he?

In the end, would it matter? He was dead. There was nothing more to it than that.

When Alfred turned his tear-stained face to look over his shoulder at England, the two sides inside met in a clash of control. He didn't fight it, instead allowing Romeo to sweep in and take over with some monologue that he would get lost in. Romeo knelt beside England and wiped at his eyes, sniffling as he tried to compose himself. He almost couldn't bring himself to look at the body before him; it simply hurt too much. He managed to find his core and look forward at his dead wife before reaching and stroking Arthur's cheek.

What Romeo said next surprised Alfred not because of _what _he said, but because he could clearly understand him. For the first time since they had been introduced into the world of fourteenth-century Verona, America could understand the words. He knew what Romeo was saying – and found himself understanding _why _he was saying them.

"Juliet," Romeo whispered quietly as he touched England's cold cheek. "Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous?" America could almost hear himself translating, understanding, and believing. Arthur looked a little odd in a dress, but he looked so peaceful that it didn't matter. Was him dying the only way he would ever look so peaceful, so … perfect? "I still will stay with thee; and never from this palace of dim night depart again," he spoke without fear, kissing Arthur on the forehead. America wasn't going to leave England's side, not for anything. Nothing.

Romeo stood and took a knee beside Arthur's body. "Eyes, look your last," he whispered. He glanced over him, from the light blond, tussled locks adorned on his head, to his shoe-covered feet. America knew how small England had been, but now he just looked fragile. He looked back to his face and blinked, a little surprised. Wasn't his face up towards the ceiling? Why was his head crooked slightly to the left now, facing him? Or, maybe he was hallucinating. The dead couldn't move.

"Arms, take your last embrace." With a trembling sigh, Romeo took England in his arms and gently rocked. He buried his face in the crook of his neck and held him close, like something he desperately didn't want to let go of. America wished he could have traded all the hours of useless arguments and bickering for him to just wake up. He set England down gently, but remained hovering above him.

"And, lips, O you the doors of breath…" Romeo leaned forward, his forehead touching with England's. "… Seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death." As his lips touched with England's, America didn't find himself protesting. He instead felt like this was, almost, the right way to say goodbye. He didn't blush or fidget like the child he could so often be, but instead could feel a few final tears slipping off his cheeks. His hand unconsciously took England's and he squeezed, so badly wanting to feel a grasp in return. He wanted it so badly that he almost felt his fingers twitch – but that was just an illusion. It wasn't real.

Romeo moved quickly as their lips parted, scooping himself up to standing before the stone bed. He looked mournfully at Juliet, his hand slowly slipping to a pouch on his thigh. America wondered what he was doing, before he felt a familiar, but tiny, object in his hands. He looked down and in his hands was that mixture of God-knows-what, and he was eyeing it so carefully, like he was daring himself, pushing himself, to actually down it. But, he wouldn't. Romeo knew better than that, right?

Taking the sight in, Montague twisted the vial in his fingertips. He stared down at it with a frown, contemplating holding his life – or death – in his hands. "Here's to my love," he muttered. He popped the cap off with ease and took a moment to look inside. The small bottle was then lifted to his lips as he leaned his head back slowly, expecting the probably painful, disgusting poison to stain his throat and seep into his body …

But at the last second, America took control. He jerked his hand away, his head snapping back to front. His palms were sweating; his heart was racing. He even felt like he was shaking a bit, panting. '_No,'_ he thought as he caught the breath he never knew he lost. '_I … I made England a promise that I wouldn't die.' _Why did he make that promise again? It was something about the plot, but what? And why couldn't he remember?

As he looked back to Arthur, however, Alfred began to seriously debate whether holding true to his word would do any good, with England already dead. His eyes and heart filled with sorrow, shoulders sagging as he examined the corpse of Arthur Kirkland. It wasn't right to see him like that. He glanced back at Paris as well. None of it was right. Finally, he looked to the vial.

He could end it all, but he was choosing not to. Romeo was begging him to. He had said his goodbyes, had lived in happiness for just a few days before it was taken from him. He had nothing left to live for, and America was starting to understand the feeling. He wasn't a nation anymore, and he didn't know how to get home. Worst of all, England, the last country he thought would fall in a situation like this, had to pay the price for something neither of them had wanted.

But, what if he still _was _the country? Would killing himself turn the war in 1942? Was there a 1942 anymore without him or England there? Was the war still going on? There were so many questions he had, none of them that would be answered living or dead. He was too helpless to live, but too scared to die. There was no in between. He had a choice to make.

Alfred took one last look at Arthur. He swore, _swore _that both his arms were on his chest. But now, only one was. Maybe he was going crazy. A life as a crazy, loveless man didn't sound good to him. Romeo crept over him as he eyed England and closed his blue eyes, his head hanging. "Here's to my love," America whispered in sorrow.

And in one swift move, the vial was to his lips and the liquid inside was down his throat.

He braced himself for a heartattack, a stroke, something, some reaction. Nothing came. Alfred blinked a few times and patted himself down. Was that it? What a ripoff. Alfred frowned slightly. It wasn't like he had actually wanted to kill himself, but something in him he knew was Romeo had told him it was easier than living alone. He sighed and looked at England again. '_What now?' _He had chosen the suicide route, the most unheroic thing he could have ever done, and it failed him. What would he do next?

He had thought too soon. Without warning, his knees buckled as his stomach threw itself towards his throat. "Wh-" He had almost collapsed, but Alfred, being too stubborn to fall, steadied himself with one knee on the tomb floor, a hand grasping his racing heart, his breaths labored and strangled. He felt like he would vomit. No, he felt like he would drown in his own perspiration. Wrong again – there were hundreds of needles under his skin. Most of was all a chill sweeping through his blood, numbing him slowly.

With a low grunt, he forced himself to a standing pose and half-walked, half-stumbled to the stone bed. His hands landed on the concrete, and he looked despairingly at England. Did he just … blink? No, he was going crazy. That was it. The dead didn't blink. He was still again soon after, and America fell to his knees. His arms still were on the slab, near England's torso. He leaned forward and trembled as he fought the dark sweeping over him. '_I never thought I'd die like _this. _This isn't a hero's death, is it?'_

This was it. He was going to die. He looked down at England and could feel air failing him, his heart readying itself to stop beating forever. He knew he didn't have much longer, if he had any time at all. "Thus," he spoke weakly, "with a kiss …" Summoning whatever strength he had left, he leaned forward and ever so gently put his lips against England's. He trembled even then, his heartbeat skipping and his strength waning. He drew back slowly, a clammy palm gently touching England's cheek. Was he getting some color back to his face? Or, was it just America's imagination? "I die," he spoke quietly, voice stained with the fear he was feeling.

Black swept into his mind like a curtain being drawn. In his chest, his heart pounded so hard against the wall of his chest that it felt like it was trying to escape from his body. The panging jolted him slightly, but just enough that he fell, his back slamming on the floor, legs slumping limply to the side. His insides felt like they were on fire, burning from his stomach through every nerve. He grit his teeth and struggled to breathe, like there was a weight on his chest and in his lungs. He was ashamed of himself for letting Romeo convince him to take that damned potion. He was also scared, scared of the darkness covering his eyes, scared of the pricks of pain in his body, scared of dying in a tomb with his last thoughts on the person he couldn't save.

A wave of calm slowly washed over him. It kept him from thrashing and writhing in pain, even if he so wanted to. His energy was gone, spent away, but he didn't panic. He felt his head, which was up to look at Arthur, falling backwards. Alfred couldn't hold on any longer.

And then, it was over. His body felt no pain or panic. His eyes closed; his body sagged and became limp with no movement. In his hand, the vial let the last drop of poison settle on the ground. His chest rose and fell one last time.

There was no sensation of the soul separating from the body. He didn't see Romeo's spirit dancing away from the corpse to find Juliet's soul. He didn't see the ghost of England hovering above him, a hand extended, like he had been waiting. Alfred didn't see any light or any golden gates leading to Heaven. He didn't turn into an angel like people believed, nor did he become a ghost to haunt the world forever. It was simple; he no longer existed. It was over, just like that, in the last way he would have wanted to go.

Alfred F. Jones and Romeo Montague were dead.


	11. Chapter 11

Dreams. Memories. Juliet's life and his own, intertwined in slumber. England's mind was flooded by them, flooded with Juliet's life and her times and feelings and opinions. He felt the heartbreak of having her parents disown her, the distaste she had for Paris and their so-called 'marriage', the love for her maternal nurse, and the strength of her love for Romeo. His life slowly bled into hers, from the crusades to civil wars, the great majesties he had the pleasure of serving, every piece of his life.

England never had odd dreams. His were always memories, thoughts. Reflection of better, and worse, times. He never had the time to think back and fall victim to nostalgia during the day, so he did so at night, when he was alone, when he couldn't be woken by present day problems. Arthur often half-dreamt, half-remembered the times he cherished and the times he loathed, but one thing he rarely did was remember America. He had trained himself to wake up during dreams involving Alfred. He had spent enough time of his life waking up with tears in his eyes, and he had decided enough was enough. The sleep-induced memories of America faded through the years, becoming less and less recurrent.

So, why was he dreaming of him now?

In his mind's eye, he saw the times they had together and the times they had apart. He didn't get a chance to dream of every single one, but he saw, heard, and felt something different every time. For instance, he recalled the time that his heart melted when America, as a toddler, showed him a very bad scribble drawing of the two of them. (England remembered that he was the color green, while America was blue.) There was the pride he felt when Alfred first fired a rifle and successfully hit the targets marked on the maple trees; how the boy jumped up and down and shouted, '_I did it! I did it! Did you see?' _

And then, there were times he didn't want to remember as much. One time, a teenage America walked out of the house during one of England's visits because of an upcoming tax. Arthur managed to find him in town, but he didn't receive a 'good night' like he usually did. There was guilt, when he visited during a particularly nasty thunderstorm and trudged through the rain, only to be met halfway by a soaking wet, likely ill Alfred. The tiny child had an umbrella that was flipped inside out from the harsh winds, and when the two saw each other, America started to cry; England couldn't remember if it was the rain on his cheek or if it was tears that followed after.

The memories of America were the signal, deep in his subconscious, that this was no normal sleep. If the memories of a teenage girl hadn't done the trick, then the memories of America did. Every time the dreams would stop, and a new memory of the blue-eyed, sandy-haired boy would begin, he would ask and himself to open his eyes, to wake up from this odd slumber. He couldn't, no matter how much he willed himself. His mind and his body were two separate entities, one ignoring the command of the other.

Maybe it was five minutes that he had been asleep. Five hours. Five seconds. But thankfully, after a long while, England finally managed to send a jolt through his body, through his mind, that it was time to get up from what he thought was nothing more than a nap - however bizarre it was. In his unconscious state he had twitched, fidgeted once or twice, movement most people did while sleeping; but therein laid the problem: he wasn't asleep. It was a coma that kept him still and made him reminisce, comatose of forty and two hours, something befallen upon him by his own accord. Even the four corners of his wise mind couldn't have reminded him of that. But forty and two hours was over, and Juliet Capulet was alive again.

Thick eyebrows furrowed along with a few blinks under closed eyelids. His chest rose high, then sank, then raised again, air filling his dry lungs. His heartbeat started to speed back up to its normal pace, and his fingertips twitched. Ever so slowly, his body began to respond.

England's eyebrows furrowed, and he peeked one eye open.. It felt like someone had used an invincible adhesive to bind his eyelids to his eyes. Wherever he was, it wasn't blindingly bright like the morning sun or any light. It was dark, but he could feel and see light from the corner of his eye. Where was he, anyway? How long had he been out? The other eye opened, and with a breath Arthur groaned. He stretched out; his body feeling like boulders had been dropped on his muscles, and gave a yawn that popped his frozen jaw.

Blinking to remain conscious, he sat up and heard odd rustling. When he looked down to see his body clad in a white dress, both elegant and sad in its appearance, he found himself unpleased but unsurprised. '_Right,'_ he thought with a quiet groan, hand covering his eyes, '_I'm still in this_ _bloody situation.' _He tried to reflect on the plot and remember where he was. His mind was in a haze, and nothing was making sense to him. This was either the worst hangover he ever had, or something was very wrong.

Suddenly, England's heart began to flutter. He saw a face in his mind – Romeo's – and looked down at the simple ring on his finger. A small smile came to his face. Juliet's personality merged with Arthur's, her thoughts infusing with his. '_I do remember well where I should be,' _she thought before looking to the left at the back wall of the tomb, '_And there I am. Where is my Romeo?' _

Juliet made Arthur pan the tomb slowly, neck craning and head looking around slowly. Something - the feeling of dread - crept up in the back of his mind that made Arthur stop her from looking too far. He snapped his head back to staring at the back wall and he tried to pinpoint what the feeling was. There was something wrong with this situation – and it wasn't just the idea of waking up in a tomb filled with dead relatives. This was something that was impossible to describe, like the world was ending. But, what was it? Arthur's green eyes shut tightly, his teeth biting into his lower lip as he thought. She took the potion, he remembered. It felt like he had drunk tar and earwax, a concoction that was unforgettable. And now, he had woken up. What happened in between? Why couldn't he remember?

'Death-like state.' The friar's words rushed back to him, and he looked down at the white dress he wore. His hands grabbed at the fabric, and he blinked in realization. Paris! Arthur looked up at the ceiling and around the back wall. That dread was forbidding him from looking anywhere else. "At least I avoided that fiasco," he murmured, furrowing his brows. Now he wondered where Romeo was. Friar Laurence had told Juliet that Romeo would be there, waiting for her when she woke up. Did his message get to Romeo in time? He forced the rigidness from his body so he could get a proper look around for any sign.

Even if he had remembered the plot beforehand, Arthur wouldn't have been able to brace Juliet for what she was about to see. In truth, if given the chance, he wouldn't have been able to brace himself for it. He craned his neck to the right and, as if drawn by a magnet, his green eyes fell immediately to a form crumpled on the floor. The person was taller than himself, lying with his legs crooked to the right. His torso faced up toward the ceiling, although his face was towards the opposite wall, so Arthur couldn't see him. The attire, tawny-colored locks, and distinctive cowlick gave away his identity, however. The wind felt like it was knocked out of Arthur when he realized that it was Romeo – Alfred.

Chills shot up his body and goosebumps covered his skin. His heart skipped a beat, and he could feel himself starting to sweat, his eyes widening, and terror starting to infect his heart. The plot came rushing back into his memory too late; the message didn't get delivered, Balthasar had the wrong story to tell, and Romeo … He looked away quickly, eyes wide, a hand flying to cover his mouth. Juliet wanted to scream. She wanted to gasp, wanted to express her shock. All he could do was let a low groan escape, his stomach making him lurch forward as if to vomit. He choked back any potential bile with a forced swallow, his eyes shutting. No. It wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening.

America couldn't be dead! He understood that countries could very well die, but not in the same ways as humans. It was very hard to kill a nation. America had great odds against being killed. America was strong. He was young. A little naïve and in over his head, perhaps, but he was simply too young to die this early in the game. Alfred knew better than to deliberately kill himself. He should have been able to control Romeo and get out while he still could. He had even explained that Romeo killed himself. But, then again, Arthur hadn't been able to stop Juliet from going into a coma. The plot was greater than them.

England's eyes opened slowly, and he waited a few seconds to let the queasy feeling pass out of him. After his stomach stopped twisting and his muscles got feeling back, he swung his legs over the side of the stone bed. His bare feet brushed against the cold base of the slab. He stood, slowly, shaking, and felt his leg muscles stretching. He took a step down, feet sliding, and nearly tumbled from weakness. He wondered whether it was from the shock of seeing what he had, or that damned coma he was in.

He faced the back wall and tried to steady his shortened breaths. England glanced back to the stone slab and noticed a pair of glasses lying abandoned, where he presumed Romeo had been sitting. England knew America; he scarcely let Texas out of his sight if the glasses weren't being worn. He was also careful of where he put the Lonestar State. He would have never neglected the spectacles like that. England's heart ached, and he reached an unsteady hand out. Picking them up, England inhaled a shaky breath. America, also, was strict about not letting anyone get near or touch the glasses. Holding the state in his hands was a telltale sign that this was all too real.

Arthur looked at America and his breath hitched. He slowly made his way over and knelt by the boy's still body. Turning America so his face was up, England swallowed and tried to force the tears back into their ducts. His hands took Texas and gently placed the spectacles back on the face of their owner. He didn't pull his hands away, instead brushing one against America's cool cheek. "This isn't funny, you know," he spoke quietly, shakingly, desperately. "… Wake up."

There was no reply. Arthur blinked a few times, his brows furrowing slightly. He rapped lightly on the youth's cheek, gently trying to slap him awake. That didn't work either, so he moved to nudging his shoulders with both hands. "Come now," England's voice croaked out louder than before, "st-stop this!" His breathing was becoming short, and his hands were trembling as he gripped America's shoulders. He shook him harder, trying his best, but America was completely limp.

"Look at me!" America's eyes didn't open. "Say something – anything, _please_!" He didn't make a single sound. England drew back slowly, shaking his head. "No," he whispered, eyes widening. Arthur drew up with a stumble, standing as he started to look around the tomb. "No, no, no!" His green eyes searched desperately for any sign that America was alive. He was trying to add it all up, and trying to figure out where Alfred was hiding, because the body before him absolutely _couldn't _be the United States of America. His voice echoed as he cried out, "I know you're in here somewhere! This isn't funny, America!" He was falling to hysteria, and he knew it. '_This isn't real,' _he tried to convince himself in a last ditch effort.

He took a few steps in one direction and then headed in another, completely lost and frantic. Tears had welled in the corner of his eyes, and he raised his trembling hands to grab his temples. He must have looked crazy, but he had to be to believe that America would die. His grip slackened, and Arthur looked back at the body. Slowly approaching over once more, he knelt down again and rested his head to where America's heart should have been beating. England closed his eyes, trying to focus all his energy into listening for a heartbeat. Anything. Even if it was faint, it was better than nothing. He bit his lip, trying to concentrate, waiting, waiting for a response.

There was nothing but the night wind on the tomb walls.

He drew back quickly. England stared down in disbelief. His eyes were still wide, and his shoulders began trembling. He considered attempting CPR, but he knew it was futile. He knew it. He now knew, for certain, that America was gone, but for some reason it couldn't sink in all the way. He was in shock, and Arthur could only stare down at Alfred, tears slowly slipping down his cheeks, silently gaping at his corpse.

"You promised," he managed to whisper, the tears falling harder. "Y – you promised me…" Arthur took a trembling breath. His arms fell to America's torso, and he lifted him up, one hand supporting his limp head and the other cradling him. His tears began to fall on America's chest, above his heart, as England looked at him, wishing so badly to see those sky-blue hues open once again.

England let out a heartbroken cry and half yelled, half sobbed, "You promised me you wouldn't die! You _promised_!" He felt a twisting inside of his chest; an uncomfortable pressure he could only assume was his heart breaking into hundreds of tiny, irreparable pieces. Arthur hoped all of this - the insults, the yelling, the crying - would have woken him up. Yet Alfred remained still. His heartbeat was nonexistent. His eyes were closed, body frozen in death. England hiccupped in his crying, looking at the body in his arms.

One of Arthur's hands gently moved the hair from Alfred's eyes, but it fell back in place. He cautiously touched Nantucket, trying to place the cowlick flat. It bounced back up, as it always did. He chuckled, a low, hollow sound and feeling, as his fingers gently wove themselves through America's soft hair. "I … I could never fix your hair, even when you were a child." England smiled a smile that was ridden with sadness and heartache. "You always did keep your bangs m - much too long." He inhaled and his body shivering as he did. "They always made you look so … s – so …" Young? Boyish? Rugged? Handsome? He couldn't describe it in words. He never could.

He swallowed thickly, his hand moving to touch America's cheek. It was cold. He remembered from the embraces of the Romeo and Juliet fiasco that America was warm. He was the comforting kind of warm, like everything would be okay, the reassurance that life would go on in the midst of war. Now, that was gone forever from Arthur's life. The boyish smiles and skyblue eyes that seemed to brighten the room were no more.

Arthur felt himself break. Without stopping himself, he moved so his forehead was resting on America's unmoving chest, and he started to sob, weeping without reservation. His voice echoed off the walls, and he swore that God was taunting him. Here was the child he found in the grass, the eager boy who ran and hugged him when he got off the ship, the teenager who broke away to find his own path, and the nation who had saved him from facing war alone; the hero he loved. Feeling that child, that teenager, and that nation dead in his arms was worse than any plague, any battle, any war. This, England knew, was what was going to kill him: losing Alfred.

His body was wracked with tremors. He managed, somehow, to stop the crying long enough to look at him again. Two hundred years of life was over. Arthur cast his gaze to the side, where America's hand lay limply against the floor. He blinked through the falling tears, a hand wiping them, and he squinted slightly. "What's here?" he murmured, a frown creasing his face as his hand took Alfred's. His still fingers, frozen in death, were pried open, and a slim, empty glass vial was wrapped inside. England's heart skipped a beat. Poison.

He caught himself considering Alfred a fool, and quickly stopped himself. No, no; it was Romeo. Romeo was the one that killed America. Goosebumps remained on his arms as he lifted the vial up and out of the body's hand. He eyed it in the light of the candles, and couldn't help but vainly put the mouth to his lips and lean his head back. Nothing. Not a drop. Arthur leaned forward and glared at the glass in anger. "Churl!" he shouted, his teeth gritting as he threw the vial with little might against the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces, and he shut his eyes tightly, sorrow grasping his heart, as he spoke lowly. "Drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after." Juliet's idea of suicide was insane, but Arthur found the appeal in it as alluring as she obviously had.

It hurt, knowing he was alone in Verona. It hurt even more knowing that America had actually died because of this. He looked to the dead nation before him and swallowed a knot in his throat. Laying him down on the ground, Arthur remained leaned forward, his forearms resting on either side of America's head, his fingers gently stroking his hair. Tears were falling on his young face, but England hardly cared. Tears would never bring him back. He leaned farther, his lips ghosting tenderly against Alfred's; to his shock, they were warm. He had only died recently. If he had woken up sooner, would he be alive?

Pulling away with a heavy sigh, Arthur bit his lip and gripped the dress above his heart. This shouldn't have been as hard as it was. He was supposed to hate America for what he did. Yet no matter what he did, no matter how he tried, he never could. Now he was alone without America, without hope, and he wished he had never tried to hate him.

His regrets shattered when he heard the door to the tomb opening. He swore he heard talking but didn't focus on the words. What would he do now? He wasn't going to face the world of fourteenth century Verona by himself, get married to a man he, and Juliet, hated, and leave someone he loved behind to rot in a tomb alone. Green eyes glanced to the archway entrance and his stomach dropped, fear making him shake more than he already was. He looked around the tomb despairingly. Where was an exit? An escape? He hissed in frustration, eyes looking to Alfred once again. His face, once upset, fell into one of realization as his eyes met a short, slender weapon attached to Romeo's belt.

A dagger. An idea.

He wasn't thinking when he grabbed the weapon. "O happy dagger," he whispered as he quickly uncovered the silver blade, "this is thy sheath…" His eyes fell to the sheath on the ground and then to the metal knife in his hands. His left hand placed itself on top of his right, arms extending out far before him. He stared the blade down, hands trembling. His breathing was uneven, heartbeat racing. Juliet's conscious might as well have been saying, 'I dare you to. I dare you.' England's eyes closed, and he felt his grip slackening, his arm muscles loosening, and his will to do it fading.

He let his guard down for one second; that's all it took for the blade to pierce through his heart.

A sound that resembled a choke, a cry, a gasp and a hiccup pushed through his lips, and his body lurched forward. His hands fell from the hilt, the silver remaining in his chest. He hadn't the strength to remove the knife now, and it wouldn't matter. His shoulders loosened and he shook when he tried to breathe. Pain shot through his body with every breath. It wasn't worth it. Blood was slipping down his chest, pouring out, spreading, like the fear he was feeling. He was going numb and everything was becoming dark. "There … rust," he told the knife with a choke. Was that blood in his mouth?

England felt himself falling, the vision around him slipping sideways. He collapsed next to Alfred's body, one arm lying on his chest. He had just enough strength to move his fingers across America's still heart, and lift his head to look at him. "And let me die," he spoke barely above a whisper. Anything. Anything was better than the pain of his body and the pain in his heart. It hurt to look at Alfred, but now, as he lay dying, it was oddly comforting. He would see him open his eyes again. He would be able to see him again, or so he had been told. He truly hoped so. Being alone in death would be as bad as being the only one left alive.

His limbs were numb. He couldn't feel himself breathing; every time he tried, it hurt. He was sure his heart had stopped, since the previous pain of a heartbeat was no longer present. Fuzz covered his vision, his already limp body freezing as it had been: left arm draped on America's chest, right arm twisted back slightly, legs crooked in the same direction as Alfred's. He had been looking up at America as well, drinking in the sight of him before he closed his eyes. Tawny hair was the last thing he saw before he slipped away. His last thought was the wish that he could have seen his smile once more.

It started with two people, then three, and then more that discovered what had transpired in the tomb that night. Balthasar was there soon to see good friend Romeo - and Romeo's lover - dead on a bloodied stone floor. The Friar was distraught at the sight, and within the hour the entire town had heard of the news. Paris' life was over. Romeo's life was over. Juliet's life was over. The guilt was stained across everyone's hands for the loss of three young lives in the midst of love and a family war.

In spite of the sorrow, none of the weeping residents of Verona, not even the closest family members of Romeo and Juliet, knew that two great nations had fallen in the shadow of the two star-crossed lovers; that their town's youth were but characters, and the players, along with the parts assigned by some godly force, had died as well.

_For never was a story of more woe  
>Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: This isn't the end of the story, I promise! Stick around and put your feet up by the fire, because this is going beyond Shakespeare!_  
><em>


	12. Chapter 12

Everywhere he looked, there was only white. He would walk forward - he couldn't even feel his legs or hear his steps - and he was always surrounded by the blinding color. He tried to shout out for anyone, anything, that might have been out of sight, but he couldn't find his voice. He wanted to hear his voice echo from a wall or ceiling. He opened his mouth, and no noise escaped, even as he mouthed desperate words. Time passed, and Alfred had simply given up trying to find a way out. He remained where he stood, silently, awkwardly looking around, waiting for something to happen, waiting for some explanation. Or, maybe he was waiting for someone. But, who? Where was he?

Something moved out of the corner of his eye. Alfred quickly whirled around and grabbed hold of whatever it was, discovering that felt like cloth. Alfred looked at the fabric in his hand and could hardly see it, as it was as white as the world around him. He could make out by the shadows on the ground what it was: a wedding dress. He could have laughed, but he knew he had seen it somewhere before by the trembling of his hand.

America, still gripping the cloth like it was a precious diamond, panned his eyes around the white again. He frowned and wanted to ask someone, anyone, where this had come from, where he was, and what was going on. Opening his mouth as if to sigh, he didn't feel air pass through his lips. In fact, he hadn't felt himself breathe at all. Curiosity got the better of him. His free hand was held under his nose, and he patiently waited for the warmth of his own breath to touch his fingers. His frown deepened when no such sensation came. He pressed his fingers to his neck and was unsurprised, but not pleased, to find a lack of a pulse. A shudder ran through him, and he hung his head slightly. If the lack of a voice, breath, or pulse couldn't be classified as creepy, he wasn't sure what could.

He would have asked why he was apparently without a heartbeat had a flash of green not distracted him. When he turned to see what it was, he noticed that the dress he held was no longer empty; someone wore it, but not the person he expected to ever see in a dress. Springy, light blond hair almost gave him away, along with heavy-set eyebrows. But Alfred had been instantly attracted to green eyes, which stared back at him. He recognized them and his mouth gaped slightly. He wasn't sure if he was going to laugh or talk. Instead, America slowly mouthed the first thing that came to mind: _England? _

Arthur nodded and did something that surprised America: he smiled. Alfred blinked twice and looked into his eyes again. How could this possibly be England? He was in a dress, for one thing. He was also smiling, which was incredibly unlike him. Maybe it wasn't England at all, but the thought of him being an illusion hurt America, and he didn't understand why, nor did he understand the warm smile tugging at his own lips, or the joy he felt with Arthur there.

Arthur's hand slid to Alfred's, and their fingers were laced together. America wanted to ask what he was doing and crack a joke, but something in him was content with the contact. He didn't have it in him to laugh at the dress, or the lovestruck eyes, or the oddly misplaced - but now welcomed - smile Arthur wore. These were all gladly accepted, and although he wondered why, Alfred didn't question it. He was too relieved to see England, for some reason, to seriously care. His eyes softened and he found himself pulling Arthur close. The older nation's smaller hands rested against his chest, his nose nuzzling the crook of America's neck. The taller's blue eyes closed, his heart fluttering as he returned the affectionate gesture.

His eyes opened soon after, though, and he looked down at his chest in surprise. His heart _fluttered_? He lifted one hand and touched it to his neck. As expected, he didn't have a pulse. Alfred saw Arthur looking at him in question, and he shook his head with a small smile, mouthing to the Brit, _Don't worry._ England frowned slightly, but returned to nuzzling America. Warmth flooded Alfred's cheeks and he could no longer suppress the grin that wanted to be loose. He felt relieved, joyous, victorious and curious all in the same instant, and while it was nearly too much for him to comprehend, Alfred now found this unknown realm to be comforting, simply because Arthur was with him. He wanted it to stay that way, even if he didn't know why.

The same fluttering-heart feeling returned when he felt England give him a peck on the cheek. It didn't help that Arthur was suddenly adorable when he blushed and smiled sweetly like a lovelorn teenage girl. Alfred briefly glanced at his chest - why was his heartbeat appearing and disappearing? - then met England's gaze. His hand brushed the shorter man's cheek gently, and the Englishman leaned into the touch with eyes closed. Alfred leaned down, his forehead gently resting against his ally's. He questioned his actions and why they felt so fluid, so natural, but nothing rose a bigger question than what he said next. His lips parted, and he had the voice to speak two things and two things only. What he said wasn't what he wanted to say, and he didn't know what it meant. It brought him the same comfort as England's presence, however, and he said it with affection laced in his tone: "My Juliet."

When he opened his eyes, England was gone.

His hand no longer rested on an empire's cheek, arm no longer holding him close. There was simply no trace of the empire. None. America retracted his hand in shock, eyes wide and heartbeat pounding in his ears. He turned 180 degrees and his heartbeat stopped, but he took in a sharp breath instead. Alfred tried to shout with a soundless voice. He felt his hands becoming moist as he took a few steps forward, then looked around and headed another way.

Becoming frantic, he started to run but stopped short soon after. The pounding in his ears was starting to become more frequent, and the sensation of shortened breath accompanying it. Desperately, his hands ran through his hair as he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. _Think, think,_ he mouthed to himself. Why could Arthur disappear? Why did he say what he did? What was going on?

He opened his eyes and cupped his hands around his mouth and, with all his might, he tried to scream._ England!_ He couldn't hear himself. Alfred tried again, his eyes closing tightly. _ENGLAND!_ The unexplainable need to find England took its toll, and he felt hot tears forming in his eyes from the frustration. _Arthur_! America felt pressure on his chest, like someone was standing on his chest. He tried to shake it off and continued yelling silently. _Arthur, where are you? _

He dropped his hands and felt his hands ball into fists. The pressure on his chest increased, and he heard a voice clearly demand for him to 'get up.' Arthur was still nowhere to be found. His eyes tightly closed, and he whispered quietly, "Juliet…" But, why was he asking for that person? "Juliet!" he cried out loud. It was the only word he could say, the only name he was able to vocalize. As odd as it was, it reminded him of Arthur.

When he opened his eyes, he hoped to see the shorter nation again. He wanted to feel him in his arms again, as new as that desire was. He didn't get anything close to that; instead, he was staring into two large, oval red eyes that gazed at him with distaste. Tony was floating in air, the two of them eye-to-eye, and the pressure on America's chest grew the longer he stared at his alien friend. How did he get there? Where did he come from? In Tony's hand was the most random and out of place item he could imagine: a pillow. Alfred wanted to laugh, until Tony raised the pillow with his eyes narrowed threateningly. America felt his lower eyelid twitch as he saw the pillow swing back, and Tony shouted in a way reminiscent of Patton. "I said, GET THE HELL UP!"

The pillow hit him hard upside the head and in that instant, the white world was gone. He shot into a sitting position, gasping for air, his blue eyes wide, hair matted and untamed. Perspiration clung to his bare chest, and his hands grasped newfound sheets on a newfound mattress. America wearily blinked, his jaw agape slightly, as he tried to fully adjust going from a white, empty space to magically being in his room. That's where he was, he knew with certainty, right down to the American sheets on his bed, and the donkey stuffed animal laying beside him. He gave a sigh of relief, but soon was groaning. "What a headache," he murmured, his hands weaving through his hair. He must have been hungover or ate some bad meat.

He slid his legs to the side of the bed, his feet brushing to the carpeted floor. He pushed himself up to stand, but a weight on his legs made him sit again. He grunted in confusion and tried again only to be pushed into a laying position. His eyes were wide ad he tried to comprehend what was going on. He saw oddly-toed feet on his chest, and noticed Tony standing on his torso. "Huh?" he uttered in confusion. But, just like his dream, Tony had a pillow in his three-fingered hand and was raising it threateningly. "T - Tony," he stammered, holding his hands in defense, "Put the pillow d - no, no, put it DOWN!"

THWHACK.

Stunned momentarily, Alfred regained his senses after a few seconds. He quickly snatched the pillow from Tony's grasp, roughly shoving the alien off his chest. "Tony! Enough with the hitting! I'm up, I'm up!" He merely heard a 'humph' in reply. He stood up before the extraterrestrial could knock him down again, but he nearly stumbled forward. Alfred's hand gently touched his temple, and his fingers massaged his skin with a displeased expression. He walked slowly, like a zombie, out of his room, and ignored the footsteps behind him. "Tony," he grunted, "you're messed up." Meandering down the hall to the bathroom, Alfred reached out to touch the knob before another pillow hit the back of his head. His forehead flew forward and hit the door with a klunk, stumbling into it in surprise. This wasn't the wake-up wagon he wanted to jump on - or get hit by.

Shoving the door open and ignoring the shouts of 'fuck you', he managed to scramble into the bathroom and lock the door, free from aliens, pillows, and being woken up from the weirdest dream he had ever had. He leaned against the door and sighed shakingly, staring at himself in the mirror. He first noticed that Texas was already on his face. He never wore the glasses to bed, but that wasn't what caught his worried attention. America frowned and walked to the sink, leaning closer to the mirror. His skin was slightly pale and appeared clammy, odd bruises and scratches on his torso and a few on his face. Fingers tracing over the wounds, his frowned deepened. What had happened to him? Alfred hung his head and grumbled, "I musta been drunk." In truth, he seriously doubted that he was hungover. Yet, that was the only logical explanation he had for the odd happenings of his dream and his disheveled appearance. America rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting a sigh escape. This had to have been the biggest headache he'd woken up with in a long time.

Alfred turned to leave, but collapsed against the wall when sudden nausea and a clenching of his stomach crippled him. All his strength was zapped from him, and as he grappled with what was happening more nausea made him hunch over. He gasped for air, warm saliva threatening to churn his stomach's contents up. Instinctively, his hand flew to his mouth. His eyes squeezed closed and he barely stumbled to the toilet in time before bile made him lurch forward, and he retched with displeasure.

Outside the bathroom, he could hear Tony voice his disgust. "That's fucking _sick_!"

Alfred would have agreed, had he the voice to do so. He waited for the nausea to pass before weakly standing, leaning against the wall as his eyes slid open. He never threw up, and if he did it was never right after he woke up. The taste in his mouth was putrid and made his nose wrinkle, the back of his hand covering his mouth. '_Maybe I should just go back to bed_,' he thought as he moved his hand and reached to open the door. He knew better to face the day than hide in the bathroom, so he pushed the door open and walked out.

Tony stood outside waiting for him, and the extraterrestrial hopped after America as he brushed by him. "All this is what you get for pulling a Houdini," he spoke bitterly. Alfred stopped half way down the stairs, glancing back at him with a brow arched. Tony groaned in frustration and hopped on the railing, sliding down passed Alfred. "Don't act like you don't remember!" Landing on the hardwood floor with a plop, Tony scooted into the kitchen.

Alfred blinked twice, eyes narrowing as he hurried after Tony. His universal room mate paid him no mind as he started to talk. "That's the problem, though - I don't remember! I have no idea what you're talking about!" Alfred observed Tony beginning to make a ham and cheese sandwich, and he rose a brow when the alien added some sort of sauce that had a green glow to it. He shook the wonder away and approached him, leaning on the counter and frowning down to him. "Come on, you gotta believe me!" Tony walked away, and America, using his longer legs, strode in front of him and halted him in his path. "Tony, what do you mean by Houdini?"

Putting the sandwich on the table, Tony hopped up on the chair and rolled his eyes when Alfred sat across from him. He couldn't eat a sandwich in peace now that he was back, could he? "You just disappeared off the face of the planet - and you don't remember shit?"

He looked at the table and fiddled with his thumbs underneath it. "I just remember going to London for a meeting. Roosevelt said I could go and visit with England for a-" He cut himself off, an epiphany hitting him. He looked up and leaned in closer. "Wait, did Roosevelt know where I was?" Tony shook his head. Alfred figured that he must have called and not gotten a response, in that case. He hesitated before asking the next question. "What about England? Did he know?"

"You don't know the definition of 'disappeared off the face of the planet', do you?"

America frowned slightly and he sighed. He really didn't understand any of this, but Tony didn't seem to be lying. "I'm sorry, man," he grumbled in guilt. He looked back up and tilted his head. "How long was I gone?"

"Few days, many - four, five probably." Tony poked the sandwich idly, a bit of the glowing ooze seeping out. He picked some up on his finger and stared at it. "I figured you were still at the fucking limey's house, but his fat, limey boss called and said he couldn't find you or that stupid bushy brows." Alfred's eyebrows arched in surprise, and Tony snickered. "I thought you and the Anglotard got hitched or somethin'."

America narrowed his eyes and pouted at Tony's accusation, and he felt his cheeks heat up. "We - what? Why would we get married, Tony?" The alien shrugged nonchalantly. The mental image of Arthur in a dress popped into his mind and puzzled him once again, and his cheeks warmed even more. Covering his face with his hands, elbows on the table, Alfred groaned in confusion, his hands smoothing his bangs back. He stared at the table top, then blinked in realization. "Hold on," he said, gazing up at Tony. "You said that England was missing, too?" Tony confirmed this with a nod, and Alfred's gaze became worried. "Have, uh, you heard anything from Churchill about England today?"

Tony looked up from the ooze on his finger and blinked. "Who?"

Alfred's face fell into a stare, and he sighed heavily. "Churchill. The, uh, 'Fat Limey Boss.'"

"Oh, him. Nope, haven't heard a thing."

America glanced to the wall nearby and furrowed his brows. Standing abruptly, he walked to the phone on the wall and quickly dialed a number, ignoring Tony's yells about not being 'through' with him. Alfred rolled his eyes and Tony grumbled, pushing by him and out to the porch. The American leaned against the wall and waited impatiently, but he felt something hit his arm. He glanced down at the bread crust on the ground and glared at Tony outside. "Tony, not now!" he hollered at his friend, who raised his fists in frustration.

A voice on the line caught America's attention, and he quickly uttered a set of numbers and code words to link him to his intended recipient. While he was on hold, Alfred sighed and leaned his forehead against an arm lounging on the wall. The nausea hadn't exactly gone away, and the new worry for England's safety wasn't helping.

He didn't have time to linger, because a familiar, and much welcomed, voice answered the phone. He instantly brightened, a smile coming to his face. "Winston!"

"Alfred?" the Prime Minister's voice asked, and America nodded despite the gesture being unseen. He heard a laugh, and could almost imagine the wide-set Churchill spin in his office chair. "My boy, I thought you'd run off to fight the war! Franklin called and asked if I'd seen you - where exactly were you these last few days?"

With an inaudible sigh, Alfred rubbed his neck. "I'm sorry, Winny," he used the affectionate nickname with a nervous smile, "but if I told you, you'd call me crazy." He rubbed his neck and sighed inaudibly. How was he going to explain this to everyone?

But, England's boss left it at that. "Hrm. Do tell the tale sometime, though." Alfred nodded with a thankful sigh. "I'm glad you're back home safe. But, while we're on the topic of missing nations, have you seen Arthur lately?" America perked up, but remained silent. "He disappeared 'round the same time you did - in fact, the exact same day. You two didn't run off and get _shipwrecked _again, did you?"

For some reason, America sensed that Churchill's words had a more risqué meaning, since he chuckled soon afterword, and Alfred felt his cheeks warm up. He tried to stammer an explanation, but Winston continued. "All jokes aside. Have you seen him? A rather angry fellow named Tony told me that he wasn't at your house. This is unlike him, I'm beginning to fear the worst."

America bit his lip and twirled the telephone line in his finger as he thought. He probably had tried calling already, since Arthur was still nowhere to be found. As he twirled the telephone line, he felt a ticklish sensation on his left hand and gazed down at it. His brows rose slowly, and he stared in surprise at his ring finger. Nestled around it was a plain gold band that captivated his attention. He stared at the ring and squinted. He had seen it before - but where? The longer he stared at the ring, the more he felt like the world was fading away. America's mouth gaped when he finally recognized where the ring had come from, but he could hardly believe it: this was his wedding ring.

The kitchen and the entirety of his house and Washington D.C. faded away, and Alfred was suddenly sucked back in time to an old church with mosaics of colorful saviors and friars with poetic words. He wasn't actually there, but in the confines of his mind he relived the memories he never knew he had. Looking to his right, Alfred blinked in doubletake at what he saw. Holding his hand was a reluctant-looking bride clad in a white gown, his - yes, his - tussled, light blond hair and large eyebrows giving his identity away.

Alfred felt something swell in him when England turned to look up at him. In his green eyes, America saw a story of star-crossed lovers - their story. Everything hit him like a freight train, every memory from start to finish: the potion, scaling the balcony, the wedding he was currently reliving, losing Mercutio and murdering Tybalt, the night before he left, the heartbreak of heading back to Verona, his confrontation with Paris, seeing Arthur for the last time …

"-lo? Hullo, America? Are you there?"

Alfred blinked when the present sunk into him again. He shook his head from staring at the ring and nearly stumbled backwards. The wall caught him, and he frantically held the phone to his ear. "I'm here," he blurted, probably louder than he should have been. Before Winston could get on his case, words stammered from his mouth with a determined tone. "Listen, I'm coming back to London and I'm gonna look for Arthur." He could hear the prime minister start to protest, but he held a hand up and closed his eyes. "Just hear me out, okay? I don't think he's going to answer the phone; I don't… I don't even know if he's awake right now. But, I think I can get to him."

Winston was quiet for a moment or two, then he spoke again. "Alfred, what if he isn't there?"

America's eyes opened. "I guess I'll just have to take the risk, huh?" The conversation ended shortly after, with Winston wishing him good luck (and wanting him to call when and if he found England). With Tony nowhere in sight, Alfred held off from calling Roosevelt despite his better judgment. His alien ally could tell his boss that he was back; he was afraid Franklin would advise him to stay in the states. Something was drawing Alfred to finding Arthur. He leaned on the wall and looked down at the ring with a frown. Was England even alive? His hand folded into a fist, one he held to his chest. He had to be. He was alive again, after all, so why wouldn't Arthur he?

Alfred didn't even bother packing. He ran upstairs to get a white t-shirt and his bomber jacket on. He walked out the front door, got into his car, and sped to the airport, Arthur on his mind. As he gripped the wheel, his eyes looked at the golden band on his fingers and his teeth grit. He had been in a situation like this before, riding on the back of a black stallion to Verona, Italy. With all his heart, he truly hoped that the outcome of this journey would not be the same.


	13. Chapter 13

There were times on the plane that Alfred swore Arthur was already with him. He would feel a brush on his hand and would look to see an empty seat. He had dreamless sleep, but wanted England to meet him in slumber. He would fiddle with the ring and replay the wedding in his mind (and pretend that he wasn't) blushing as he did so. It was almost annoying how much England was on his mind. It was as bad as Romeo's recurrent thoughts of Juliet. But, then again, the last time he saw his friend was when he was dead in a tomb, so in his mind the constant thoughts were justified.

Unconsciously, America would brush his fingers on his neck and check his pulse. He'd also watch his chest rise and fall. He was afraid that he would stop breathing, his heartbeat would disappear, and once again he would be stuck in a white dream. Part of him wanted that to happen, if it meant seeing England. With a groan, his fingers rubbed his temples and he tried to calm himself down. "Easy, Alfred," he murmured, his hands grasping the arm rests tightly, "he's just fine, everything's fine. He's just… asleep!" He paused, and hung his head with a grunt. "… for five days."

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back with a huff, his cheeks still warm. Everything seemed new. His thoughts of England were as they had been, but now, even just thinking of his eyebrows, or green eyes, or short stature made him blush. Maybe Romeo was still in his mind. Did that mean Juliet was still with Arthur? 'Just stop thinking,' he begged himself with a sigh. Sleep. He would just sleep.

-

"Sir? We've arrived."

A nudging of his shoulder roused Alfred, his blue eyes fluttering open. He glanced at the airline waitress and smiled in understanding. He stretched quickly before hurrying off the now empty plane, and it didn't take him long to blend in with the scurrying crowd in the terminal. He didn't care where in London they were heading; he had to get through first. He pushed and shoved and swiveled around people with wild abandon, uttering an occasional 'excuse me' or 'pardon me.' The closer to the exit he got, the more anxious he was. He glanced at the clock and hardly cared about the time difference. Where in DC it would have been two or so in the morning, it was seven in the evening there. If Arthur wasn't awake by then, he had something to seriously worry about. England always awoke at six thirty in the morning, a habit he once tried to get America into.

Once outside, he ignored the overcast, sunless clouds and waited on the curb for a taxi. There wasn't too much competition, but Alfred's booming voice and lack of regard for other people settled him with a taxi in no time. He directed the driver to the destination and leaned back in his seat, nausea once again washing over him. Or, maybe it was just worry.

Twenty minutes later, he was pulling up to Arthur's house. In a rush he paid the driver and stumbled out, staring at the house as the taxi drove away. The front door looked like it was off its hinges and poorly put back on - he assumed someone had fixed it while they were gone. He walked to the door and put a hand on the outline of what looked like a shoe, then glanced to his boot. He swallowed thickly and gently pushed the door open, unsure of what he was going to find once inside. Without ruining the door more than it already was (and he made a mental reminder to properly fix it later on), he slid inside of Arthur Kirkland's house and gazed around at the familiar sights. The only problem was it was just too quiet.

"Hello?" he asked quietly at first. There was no reply. "Helloooo?" he hollered louder, but he didn't hear an accented response. He bit his lower lip in worry and glanced to a cracked open door off to the left, and immediately hurried to it. He swung it open and quickly descended the stairs only to be greeted by an unoccupied, and small, basement-like room. It was eerie, like a horror movie. America turned on a light and his eyes were drawn like magnets to a large, black cauldron on its side resting on the brick. In the cracks of the floor, he saw crimson stains, mostly evaporated, but there was still some bubbling and smoking from the potion. America made sure not to go anywhere near it as he carefully meandered around the tiny, magic-filled room.

It looked just like It did before the cauldron spilled, so Arthur hadn't been down there. It wasn't like him to leave messes like that. Not being awake in the evening, leaving messes out in the open… Alfred was getting a gnawing feeling that England was nowhere to be found. He hurried up the stairs and snooped through the rest of the house. The kitchen was burn-free, no traces of newly made "food" in sight. The living room was bare. The downstairs bathroom was unoccupied until Alfred found he had to use it. When he finished, he quickly strode up the stairs and began opening doors at will. A storage room was empty, and the only things visible in the darkness were a hidden red coat and rifle. Another bathroom was free, but he did a double take when he thought he saw twinkle of brightly colored light outside the window.

He strode down the hallway to a closed door, one he knew was the guest bedroom. He often stayed there when he was in London, rather than being in some run-down hotel. "You're a nation; you shouldn't stay in a hotel," England would always explain, although America wanted to believe it was because England enjoyed his company. He opened the door; his luggage was still on the unmade bed, clothes half-hanging from the suitcase, a few papers scattered on a nearby desk. Nearby was a map with pen marks and a compass laying against the desk. He walked over and traced with his finger the paths the two nations had planned to get into Germany in the years to come. He paused over a small, barely visible city in a country shaped like a boot. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in and read the name in his mind: _'Verona, Italy.'_

A faint thump down the hall made him jump, his hand jolting to his side. He leaned out the door and gazed at a closed door - the master bedroom. A frown creased America's face as he quietly approached. His heartbeat rang in his ears. His breathing was heavy. His left hand fingers fiddled with the ring, and he almost didn't want to open the door. He could almost see through it the body of England lying lifelessly on the bed, just like in the tomb. Chills ran up and down his spine, and he closed his eyes tightly. He couldn't let that happen again. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he failed again.

The unexplainable drive to find England made America nearly rip the bedroom door off its hinges to get inside. Alfred stood in the doorframe of the rooom, staring in at a messy bed to the left. The sheets trailed off towards the right and in front of him, as if someone had stumbled out of bed. They stopped in front of a mirror, and America looked into the eyes of a familiar face. However, his heart dropped lower than it has ever dropped before. This wasn't the person he wanted to see. He wanted to see green eyes, not blue. He wanted a green uniform, not a brown bomber jacket. In the mirror, his own reflection was the only company he was given.

England was nowhere in the house, nowhere to be heard from. He was simply gone, as if he had never even existed and this was some strangers home. For all Alfred knew, Arthur was still in a coma - or worse, dead - in Verona, six hundred years in the past. "No," he weakly croaked as he shook his head and stepped farther into the room. He stared at the bed in disbelief, then looked around in a circle. "England?" he called loudly, his voice traveling through the room and down the hall. Why was he back, but Arthur wasn't?

The nostalgia of the lonely dream he had only hours ago came back, and he horribly wished that's all this was: a dream. How could it be that England was stuck back in time? How would be get home? How could America save him? (Alfred was the hero, so it was automatically his job - not as if he would complain.) Alfred ran both hands through his hair and tried to calm himself, but it was for nothing. Panic swept over him as he turned and ran from the room, reopening every door to the rooms he had been in before. Every time he would peek inside, calling out for his ally. "England?" And, every time, the only comfort he received was his voice echoing off the walls of unoccupied spaces. He tried the entire upstairs, peeked through windows and down the road, into the backyard, trying to find one person, any sign of him, _anything_, that showed he was alright.

The house went quiet as he stopped at the top of the staircase. He looked down the flight and heard the house creak. Outside, he could faintly make out cars driving by. How could the world go on when the United Kingdom was gone? How could the people of London not know that their dearest nation was stuck in a play set in the fourteenth century? Alfred's teeth grit and, without warning, he slammed his hand on the railing of the staircase in his frustration. The railing made a stressing noise from his strength, and America let his hand hang limply against it. He stared down at his feet and closed his eyes tightly. Something in him, the so-called naïve, childish part of his heart, refuse to give up. Even when all the lights seemed to fade, and any hope of England's well-being was hidden, he refused to give in. He was the hero; he had to find a way! He held onto the tiniest hope that Arthur was somewhere, okay, safe, _alive_. He refused to give up on him. London was a big city, and he had to be there somewhere, waiting to be found, and everything would be alright again.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins. America bound down the steps in leaps, the rest of the house passing by him in a blur. His focus was completely on the speed of his legs and reaching the mangled front door. His visage was stubborn, determined, and in his eyes was the zeal and light of a hero on a mission.

His heroic moment was cut off abruptly by an unseen force. His fingertips had brushed against the brass knob, not even grasping it, when the door swung open. America had a brief instant realize that someone was coming inside. He also realized that he was bolting out the door like he was running from a ghost. With the second he was given, he tried to stop himself and his feet skid against the floor, his eyes wide, as he saw the silhouette of someone entering the house.

KLUNK. Alfred's head smacked into the other man's with a force that seemed like a train to a brick wall. Both of them gave a cry of pain, and at the same time Alfred stumbled into the other man. They fell out of the house, Alfred accidentally tackling the poor unknown like a football player and a sack of potatoes. They fell on the front lawn with Alfred sprawled on top of the bystander. Slowly, the Yank sat up and gave a quiet groan, looking down while rubbing the sore spot on his forehead he knew would likely be a bruise. When he finally realized that he was using this man as a couch, his face flushed and he tumbled up. "Aw, geez! 'm really sorry!" he apologized.

Once up, he put a hand on his knee and extended his other to assist the man he had crashed into, but the victim smacked his hand in refusal and stood on his own. "Watch where you're going," the man spoke in a sputtering and upset tone (and America, for a moment, stopped breathing at his dialect), "and what were you doing in my house?" As he stood, Alfred's eyes slowly opened in surprise. The accent had tripped him for a moment until he realized that most Londoners had an English accent. His brief intuition from a moment ago had proven correct, however, and he couldn't help but stare at the man before him.

Tussled, light blond hair swayed with a breeze as angry green eyes looked into opposite baby blues. Thick eyebrows were furrowed, and hands were on hips covered by green uniform pants. "Were you trying to bre-" he started to ask in annoyance until he saw the eyes he looked into. The man's stature faltered, and all traces of anger faded. His green hues blinked in shock, and he let his arms hang at his side. "Am - America?" he stammered in hesitation, eyes narrowing to look up at Alfred.

The only thing Alfred could do was take in a breath and ask, in quiet doubt, "England…?"


End file.
